KATHERINE  CECIL  THURSTON 


£3 


MAX 


[See    pa^e   252 


I    HAVE    WAITED    ALL    MY    LIFE    FOR    THIS 


MAX 


A   NOVEL 

BY 

KATHERINE  CECIL   THURSTON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE   MASQUERADER" 
"THE  GAMBLER"   ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 
FRANK  CRAIG 


HARPER  &■  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

M  C  M  X 


Copyright,  1909,  1910,  by  Kathf.rine  Cecil  Thurston 


Published  September,  1910. 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


542/ 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


I  HAVE  WAITED  ALL  MY  LIFE  FOR  THIS  ....  Frontispiece 
STANDING    AGAIN    IN    THE    OUTER    COURT    OF    A    HOUSE 

IN    PETERSBURG Facing  p.        4 

TWO    SOULS,    DRAWN   TOGETHER,    TOUCHED    IN    A    FIRST 

SUBTLE    FUSION "             44 

"WHY,    BOY,   THIS   IS   CLEVER CLEVER CLEVER  !"  "            62 

THE   IMPRESSION   OF   A   MYSTERY    FLOWED   BACK  UPON 

HIM "          126 

"LOOK!       THIS   IS   WHAT   I   SHALL  DO.       THIS!"       ...  "          1 54 

THE    COMPLETE    SEMBLANCE    OF    THE    WOMAN       .        .        .  186 

"C'EST   LA     V1EI       L'ETERNELLE,   LA     TOUTE-PUISSANTE    VIE1"  "          2  28 


2138614 


PART  I 


MAX 


CHAPTER  I 

- 

ANIGHT  journey  is  essentially  a  thing  of  possi- 
bilities. To  those  who  count  it  as  mere  transit, 
mere  linking  of  experiences,  it  is,  of  course,  a  common- 
place; but  to  the  imaginative,  who  by  gift  divine  see  a 
picture  in  every  cloud,  a  story  behind  every  shadow,  it 
suggests  romance — romance  in  the  very  making. 

Such  a  vessel  of  inspiration  was  the  powerful  north 
express  as  it  thundered  over  the  sleeping  plains  of  Ger- 
many and  France  on  its  night  journey  from  Cologne  to 
Paris.  A  thing  of  possibilities  indeed,  with  its  varying 
human  freight — stolid  Teutons,  hard-headed  Scandi- 
navians, Slavs  whom  expediency  or  caprice  had  forced 
to  descend  upon  Paris  across  the  sea  of  ice.  It  was  the 
month  of  January,  and  an  unlikely  and  unlovely  night  for 
long  and  arduous  travel.  There  were  few  pleasure- 
passengers  on  the  express,  and  if  one  could  have  looked 
through  the  carriage  windows,  blurred  with  damp  mist, 
one  would  have  seen  upon  almost  every  face  the  look — 
resigned  or  resolute — of  those  who  fare  forth  by  neces- 
sity rather  than  by  choice.  In  the  sleeping-cars  all  the 
berths  were  occupied,  but  here  and  there  throughout  the 
length  of  the  train  an  occasional  traveller  slept  on  the 
seat  of  his  carriage,  wrapped  in  coats  and  rugs,  while  in 
the  dining-saloon  a  couple  of  sleepy  waiters  lurched  to 


MAX 

and  fro  in  attendance  upon  a  party  of  three  men  whose 
energy  precluded  the  thought  of  wasting  even  the  night 
hours  and  who  were  playing  cards  at  one  of  the  small 
tables  Up  and  down  the  whole  overheated,  swaying 
train  there  was  the  suggestion  of  mystery,  of  contrast 
and  effect,  and  the  twinkling  eyes  of  the  electric  lamps 
seemed  to  wink  from  behind  their  drawn  hoods  as 
though  they,  worldly  wise  and  watchful,  saw  the  in- 
dividuality— the  inevitable  story — behind  the  drowsy 
units  who  sat  or  lay  or  lounged  unguarded  beneath 
them. 

In  one  carriage,  the  fifth  or  sixth  from  the  thundering 
engine,  these  lights  winked  and  even  laughed  one  to  the 
other  each  time  the  train  lurched  over  the  points,  and 
the  dark,  shrouding  hoods  quivered,  allowing  a  glimpse 
at  the  occupant  of  the  compartment. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  boy  upon  which  the  twinkling 
lamp-eyes  flickered — a  boy  who  had  as  yet  scarce  passed 
the  barrier  of  manhood,  for  the  skin  of  the  face  was  clean 
and  smooth,  and  the  limbs,  seen  vaguely  under  a  rough 
overcoat,  had  the  freedom  and  supple  grace  that  belongs 
to  early  youth. 

He  was  sleeping,  this  solitary  traveller — one  hand 
under  his  head,  the  other  instinctively  guarding  some- 
thing that  lay  deep  and  snug  in  the  pocket  of  his  over- 
coat. His  attitude  was  relaxed,  but  not  entirely  aban- 
doned to  the  solace  of  repose;  even  in  his  sleep  a  some- 
thing of  self-consciousness  seemed  to  cling  to  him — a 
need  for  caution  that  lay  near  to  the  surface  of  his  drows- 
ing senses — for  once  or  twice  he  started,  once  or  twice  • 
his  straight,  dark  eyebrows  twitched  into  a  frown,  once 
or  twice  his  fingers  tightened  nervously  upon  their 
treasure.  He  was  subconsciously  aware  that,  deserted 
though  the  compartment  was,  it  yet  exhaled  an  alien 
suggestion,  embodied  in  the  rugs,  the  coats,  the  hand- 

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MAX 

baggage  of  the  card-playing  travellers,  which  was  heaped 
upon  the  seat  opposite. 

But,  despite  this  physical  uneasiness,  he  was  dreaming 
as  the  train  tore  along  through  the  damp,  peaceful 
country — dreaming  with  that  odd  confusion  of  time  and 
scene  that  follows  upon  keen  excitement,  stress  of  feel- 
ing or  stress  of  circumstance. ' 

As  he  dreamed,  he  was  standing  again  in  the  outer 
court  of  a  house  in  Petersburg — a  house  to  which  he  was 
debtor  for  one  night's  shelter ;  it  was  early  morning  and 
deadly  cold.  The  whole  picture  was  sharp  as  a  cut 
crystal — the  triple  court-yard,  the  stone  pavement,  the 
gray  well,  and  frozen  pile  of  firewood.  He  saw,  recog- 
nized, lost  it,  and  knew  himself  to  be  skimming  down 
the  Nevskiy  Prospekt  and  across  the  Winter  Palace 
Square,  where  the  great  angel  towers  upon  its  rose- 
granite  monument.  Forward,  forward  he  was  carried, 
along  the  bank  of  the  frozen  Neva  and  over  the  Troitskiy 
bridge,  the  powdered  snow  stinging  his  face  like  pin- 
points as  it  flew  up  from  the  nails  in  his  little  horse's 
shoes.  Then  followed  a  magnifying  of  the  picture — 
massed  buildings  rising  from  the  snow — buildings  gold 
and  turquoise-domed,  that,  even  as  they  materialized, 
lost  splendor  and  merged  into  the  unpretentious  front- 
age of  the  Finland  station. 

The  scroll  of  the  dream  unwound ;  the  dreamer  moved, 
easing  his  position,  shaking  back  a  lock  of  dark  hair  that 
had  fallen  across  his  forehead.  He  was  no  longer  rock- 
ing to  the  power  of  the  north  express;  he  was  standing 
on  the  platform  at  the  end  of  a  little  train  that  puffed 
out  of  the  Finland  station — a  primitive,  miniature  train, 
white  with  frost  and  powdered  with  the  ashes  of  its  wood 
fuel.  The  vision  came  and  passed — a  sketch,  not  a 
picture — a  suggestion  of  straight  tracks,  wide  snow 
plains,  and  the  blue,  misty  blur  of  fir  woods.     Then  a 

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MAX 

shifting,  a  juggling  of  effects!  Abo,  the  Finnish  port, 
painted  itself  upon  his  imagination,  and  he  was  em- 
barked upon  the  lonely  sledge-drive  to  the  harbor.  He 
started  in  his  sleep,  shivered  and  sighed  at  that  re- 
membered drive.  The  train  passed  over  new  points, 
the  hoods  of  the  lamps  swayed,  the  lights  blinked  and 
winked,  and  his  mind  swung  onward  in  response  to 
the  physical  jar. 

Abo  was  obliterated.  He  was  on  board  a  ship — a  ship 
ploughing  her  way  through  the  ice-fields  as  she  neared 
Stockholm;  salt  sea  air  flicked  his  nostrils,  he  heard 
the  broken  ice  tearing  the  keel  like  a  million  files,  he  was 
sensible  of  the  crucial  sensation — the  tremendous  quiver 
— as  the  vessel  slipped  from  her  bondage  into  the  cradle 
of  the  sea,  a  sentient  thing  welcoming  her  own  element! 

The  heart  of  the  dreamer  leaped  to  that  strange 
sensation.  He  drew  a  long,  sharp  breath,  and  sat  up, 
suddenly  awake.  It  was  over  and  done  with — the  cold- 
ness, the  rigor,  the  region  of  ice  bonds!  The  fingers  of 
the  future  beckoned  to  him;  the  promises  of  the  future 
lapped  his  ears  as  the  waves  had  lapped  the  ship's 
sides. 

He  looked  about  him,  at  first  excitedly,  then  con- 
fusedly, then  a  little  shamedfacedly,  for  we  are  always 
involuntarily  shamed  at  being  tricked  by  our  emotions 
into  a  false  conception.  Drawing  his  hand  from  his 
coat-pocket,  he  stretched  himself  with  an  assumption  of 
ease,  as  though  he  saw  and  recognized  the  twinkle  in 
the  electric  lamps  and  spontaneously  rose  to  its  demands. 

The  train  was  flying  forward  at  unabated  speed. 
Outside,  the  raw  January  air  was  clinging  in  a  film  to 
the  carriage  window;  inside,  the  dim  light  and  over- 
heated air  made  an  artificial  atmosphere,  enervating  or 
stimulating  according  to  the  traveller's  gifts.  To  this 
solitary  voyager  stimulation  was  obviously  the  effect  pro- 

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STANDING    AGAIN*    IN    THE    OUTER    COURT   OK   A    HOUSE    IN    PETERSBURG 


MAX 

duced,  for,  try  as  he  might  to  cheat  the  inquisitive 
lamps,  interest  in  every  detail  of  his  surroundings  was 
portrayed  in  his  face,  in  the  poise  of  his  head,  the  quick- 
ness of  his  glance  as  he  gazed  round  the  compartment, 
verifying  the  impression  that  he  was  alone. 

Yes,  he  was  absolutely  alone!  Everything  was  as  it 
had  been  when  he  settled  himself  to  sleep  on  the  de- 
parture of  the  three  strangers.  There,  on  the  opposite 
seat,  were  their  rugs,  their  fur-lined  coats,  their  illus- 
trated papers — all  the  impedimenta  of  prosperous  travel- 
lers; and  there,  on  the  rack  above  them,  was  his  own 
modest  hand-bag  without  initials  or  label — a  common 
little  bag  that  might  have  belonged  to  some  poor  Russian 
clerk  or  held  the  possessions  of  some  needy  Polish  student. 
The  owner's  glance  scanned  and  appraised  it,  then  by 
suggestion  fell  to  the  plain  rough  overcoat  that  covered 
him  from  his  neck  to  the  tops  of  his  high  boots,  and 
whose  replica  was  to  be  seen  any  day  in  the  meaner 
streets  of  Petersburg  or  Moscow.  Like  the  bag,  it  was 
a  little  strange,  a  little  incongruous  in  its  comfortable 
surroundings — a  little  savoring  of  mystery. 

The  traveller's  pulses  quickened,  his  being  lifted  to 
the  moment,  for  in  his  soul  was  the  spark  of  adventure, 
in  his  eyes  the  adventurous  look — fearless,  observant, 
questioning.  In  composition,  in  expression  and  essence, 
this  boy  was  that  free  and  fascinating  creature,  the  born 
adventurer — high  of  courage,  prodigal  of  emotion,  capt- 
urer  of  the  world's  loot. 

The  spirit  within  him  shone  out  in  the  moment  of 
solitude ;  he  passed  his  hands  down  the  front  of  his  coat, 
revelling  in  its  coarse  texture ;  he  rose  to  his  feet,  turned 
to  the  sheet  of  gray,  misted  glass,  and,  letting  down  the 
window,  leaned  out  into  the  night. 

The  scene  was  vague  and  ghostly,  but  to  eyes  accus- 
tomed to  northern  whiteness  it  was  full  of  suggestion, 

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MAX 

full  of  secrecy;  to  nostrils  accustomed  to  keen,  rarefied 
air  there  was  something  poignant  and  delicious  in  the 
scent  of  turned  earth,  the  savor  of  vegetation.  He 
could  see  little  or  nothing  as  the  train  rocked  and  the 
landscape  tore  past,  but  the  atmosphere  spoke  to  him 
as  it  speaks  to  blind  men,  penetrating  his  consciousness. 
Here  were  open  spaces,  tracts  of  country  fructifying  for 
the  spring  to  come.  A  land  of  promise — of  growth— of 
fulfilment ! 

He  closed  his  eyes,  living  in  the  suggestion,  and  his 
spirit  sped  forward  with  the  onrush  of  the  train.  Some- 
where beyond  the  darkness  lay  the  land  of  his  desires! 
Somewhere  behind  the  veil  shone  the  lights  of  Paris! 
With  a  quick,  exulting  excitement  he  laughed;  but  even 
as  the  laugh  was  caught  and  scattered  to  the  winds  by 
the  thunder  of  the  engine,  his  bearing  changed,  the  ex- 
citement dropped  from  him,  a  mask  of  immobility  fell 
upon  his  face,  and  he  wheeled  round  from  the  window. 
The  card-playing  travellers  had  opened  the  door  of  the 
carriage. 

From  his  shadowy  corner  the  boy  eyed  them;  and 
they,  alert  from  their  game,  slightly  dazed  by  the  dark- 
ness of  the  carriage,  peered  back  at  him,  frankly  curious. 
When  they  had  left  the  compartment  he  had  been  a 
huddled  figure  demanding  no  attention;  now  he  was 
awake  and  an  individual,  and  human  nature  prompted 
interest. 

Each  in  turn  looked  at  him,  and  at  each  new  glance 
his  coldness  of  demeanor  deepened ;  until,  as  the  eldest 
of  the  party  came  down  the  carriage  and  appropriated 
the  seat  beside  him,  he  turned  away,  pulling  up  the 
window  with  resentful  haste. 

"Don't  do  that!"  said  the  third  man,  pausing  in  the 
doorway  and  speaking  in  French  easily  and  pleasantly. 
"  Don't  do  that — if  you  want  the  air!" 

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MAX 

The  boy  started  and  looked  round. 

"  I  thank  you!     But  I  do  not  need  the  air!" 

The  man  smiled  acquiescence,  but  as  he  stepped  into 
the  carriage  he  took  a  sharp  look  at  the  boy's  clothes — 
the  common  Russian  clothes — -and  a  slightly  questioning, 
slightly  satirical  expression  crossed  his  face.  He  was  a 
man  who  knew  his  world  the  globe  over,  and  in  his  bear- 
ing lurked  the  toleration,  the  kindly  scepticism  that  such 
knowledge  breeds. 

"  As  you  please!"  he  said,  settling  himself  comfortably 
in  the  corner  by  the  door,  while  the  elder  of  his  com- 
panions— a  tall,  spare  American — crossed  his  long  legs 
and  lighted  a  thin  black  cigar,  and  the  younger — a  spruce 
young  Englishman  wearing  an  eye-glass  and  a  small 
mustache— wrapped  himself  in  his  rugs,  took  a  clean 
pocket-handkerchief  from  his  dressing-case,  and  opened 
a  large  bundle  of  illustrated  papers — French,  German, 
and  English. 

For  a  space  the  train  rocked  on.  No  one  attempted 
to  speak,  and  the  Russian  boy  continued  to  stand  by  the 
window,  pretending  to  look  through  the  blurred  panes, 
in  reality  wondering  how  he  could  with  least  commotion 
pass  down  the  carriage  to  his  own  vacated  place. 

At  last  the  man  with  the  long  cigar  broke  the  silence 
in  a  slow,  cool  voice  that  betrayed  his  nationality. 

"We're  well  on  time,  Blake,"  he  remarked,  drawing 
out  his  watch. 

The  youth  by  the  window  shot  an  involuntary,  fleeting 
glance  at  the  two  younger  men,  to  see  which  would  an- 
swer to  the  name;  and  the  student  of  human  nature 
noted  the  fact  that  he  understood  English. 

"Oh,  it's  a  good  service!"  he  acquiesced,  the  tolerant 
look — half  sceptical,  half  humorous — passing  again  over 
his  face. 

I  don't  know!     I  think  we  could  do  with  another 


it 


MAX 

few  kilometres  to  the  hour."  The  thin  man  studied  his 
flat  gold  watch  with  the  loving  interest  of  one  to  whom 
time  is  a  sacred  thing. 

At  this  point  the  youngest  of  the  three  raised  his  head. 

"  Marvellous  sight  you  have,  McCutcheon !  Wish  I 
could  see  by  this  light!" 

McCutcheon  leaned  forward,  replacing  his  watch. 
"What!  Can't  you  see  your  picture-books?  Let's 
have  the  blinkers  off!"  He  rose,  his  long,  spidery  figure 
stretching  up  like  a  grotesque  shadow,  but  as  his  arm 
went  out  to  the  nearest  of  the  shrouded  lamps  he  was 
compelled  to  draw  back  against  the  seat  of  the  carriage, 
and  an  exclamation  of  surprise  escaped  him. 

Without  warning  or  apology  the  Russian  boy  had 
turned  from  the  window,  and  stepping  down  the  car- 
riage, had  tumbled  into  his  former  seat,  hunching  him- 
self up  with  his  face  to  the  cushions  and  his  back  to  his 
fellow-travellers. 

It  was  a  sudden  and  an  uncivil  proceeding.  The  man 
called  Blake  smiled;  the  Englishman  shrugged  his 
shoulders;  the  American,  with  a  movement  of  quiet 
determination,  drew  back  the  lamp  hoods. 

In  the  flood  of  light  the  carriage  lost  its  air  of  mystery, 
and  Blake,  who  had  a  fancy  for  the  mysterious,  dropped 
back  into  his  corner  and  took  out  his  cigar-case  with  a 
little  feeling  of  regret.  In  traversing  the  world's  path- 
ways, beaten  or  wild,  he  always  made  a  point  of  seeing 
the  story  behind  the  circumstance;  and,  had  he  realized 
it,  a  common  instinct  bound  him  in  a  triangular  link  to 
the  peering,  winking  lamps,  and  to  the  Russian  boy  lying 
unsociably  wrapped  in  his  heavy  coat.  All  three  had  an 
eye  for  an  adventure. 

But  the  lights  were  up,  and  the  curtain  down — it  was 
a  theatre  between  the  acts ;  and  presently  the  calculating 
voice  of  McCutcheon  broke  forth  again,  as  he  relapsed 

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MAX 

into  his  original  attitude,  coiling  up  his  long  limbs  and 
nursing  his  cigar  to  a  glow. 

"I  can't  get  over  that  'four  jacks,'"  he  said.  "To 
think  I  could  have  been  funked  into  seeing  Billy  at 
fifty!" 

Blake  laughed.  "  'Twas  the  eye-glass  did  it,  Mac!  A 
man  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  play  poker  with  an  eye- 
glass;  it's  taking  an  undue  advantage." 

McCutcheon  smiled  his  dry  smile  and  shot  a  quizzical 
glance  at  the  neat  young  Englishman,  who  had  become 
absorbed  in  one  of  his  papers. 

"Solid  face,  Blake!"  he  agreed.  "Nothing  so  fine  as 
an  eye-glass  for  sheer  bluff.  What  would  Billy  be  with- 
out one  ?  Well,  perhaps  we  won't  say.  But  with  it  you 
have  no  use  for  doubt — he's  a  diplomat  all  the  time." 

The  young  man  named  Billy  showed  no  irritation. 
With  the  composure  which  he  wore  as  a  garment,  he 
went  on  with  his  occupation. 

For  a  time  McCutcheon  bore  this  aloofness,  then  he 
opened  a  new  attack.  "  What  are  you  reading,  my  son  ? 
Makes  a  man  sort  of  want  his  breakfast  to  see  that  hungry 
look  in  your  eyes.     Share  the  provender,  won't  you?" 

Billy  looked  up  sedately. 

"  You  fellows  think  my  life's  a  game,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  tell  you  it  takes  some  doing  to  keep  in  touch  with 
things" 

Blake  laughed  chaffingly.  "And  the  illustrated 
weekly  papers  are  an  excellent  substitute  for  Blue- 
books?" 

Billy  remained  undisturbed.  "  It's  all  very  well  to 
scoff,  but  one  may  get  a  side-light  anywhere.  In  diplo- 
macy nothing's  too  insignificant  to  notice." 

Again  Blake  laughed.  "The  principle  on  which  it 
offers  you  a  living?" 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Billy,  "that's  rather  rough!     You 

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MAX 

know  very  well  what  I  mean.  Tisn't  always  in  the 
serious  reports  you  get  the  color  of  a  fact,  just  as  the 
gossip  of  a  dinner-table  is  often  more  enlightening  than 
a  cabinet  council." 

"Apropos?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  this  Petersburg  affair." 

"What?  The  everlasting  Duma  business?"  Mc- 
Cutcheon  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  smoke. 

Billy  looked  superior,  as  befitted  a  man  who  dealt  in 
subtler  matters  than  mere  politics.  "  Not  at  all,"  he 
said.     "The  disappearance  of  the  Princess  Davorska." 

Here  Blake  made  a  murmur  of  impatience.  "Oh, 
Billy,  don't!"  he  said.     "It's  so  frightfully  banal." 

McCutcheon  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth.  "The 
woman  who  disappeared  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage?" 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Blake,  "disappeared  on  the  eve  of 
her  marriage  to  elope  with  some  poet  or  painter,  and  set 
society  by  the  ears.     Thoroughly  modern  and  banal!" 

The  young  diplomat  glanced  up  once  more. 

"  I  don't  think  there's  any  suggestion  of  a  lover." 

"Fact  is  more  potent  than  suggestion,  Billy.  Of 
course  there  is  a  lover.  Princesses  don't  disappear 
alone." 

"You're  a  Socialist,  Ned."  Billy's  eyes  returned  to 
his  paper.  "  Like  all  good  Socialists,  crammed  to  the 
neck  with  class  bigotry.  Nobody  is  such  an  individualist 
as  the  man  who  advocates  equality!" 

Blake  smiled.  "That  seems  to  sound  all  right,"  he 
said;    "but  it  doesn't  remove  the  lover." 

The  good-humored  scepticism  at  last  forced  a  way  to 
Billy's  susceptibilities. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  crossly,  "if  hearing's  not  be- 
lieving, perhaps  seeing  is!  Look  at  these  pictures; 
they're  not  particularly  modern  or  banal." 

He  held  out  his  paper,  but  Blake  shook  his  head. 

10 


MAX 

"No!  No,  Billy,  not  for  me.  If  it  was  some  little 
Rumanian  gypsy  who  had  run  away  from  her  tribe  I'd 
take  her  to  my  heart  and  welcome.  But  a  Princess 
Davorska — no!" 

At  this  point  McCutcheon  stretched  out  his  long  arm 
and  took  the  paper  from  Billy's  hand.  "  Let's  have  a 
squint!"  he  said.  "  Lover  or  no  lover,  she  must  be  a  bit 
wide  awake."  And,  curling  himself  up  again,  he  began 
to  read  from  the  paper,  in  a  monotonous  murmuring 
voice :  " '  The  Princess,  as  well  as  being  a  woman  of  artistic 
accomplishments,  is  an  ardent  sportswoman,  having  in  her 
early  girlhood  hunted  and  shot  with  keen  zest  on  her  father's 
estates.  The  above  picture  shows  her  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, carrying  a  gun.'  By  the  Lord,  she  is  wide  awake!" 
he  added,  by  way  of  comment.  "  She  is  wide  awake 
carrying  that  gun,  but  I'd  lay  my  money  on  the  second 
picture.  Say,  Billy,  she  looks  a  queen  in  her  court 
finery!" 

But  here  real  disgust  crossed  Blake's  face.  "Oh, 
that  '11  do,  Mac!  Give  us  peace  about  the  woman.  I'm 
sick  to  death  of  all  such  nonsense.  We're  due  in  a 
couple  of  hours.  I  think  I'll  try  for  forty  winks."  He 
threw  away  his  cigar  and  tucked  his  rug  about  him. 

McCutcheon  glanced  at  him,  and,  seeing  that  he  was 
in  earnest,  handed  the  paper  back  to  Billy. 

"Thanks,  Mac!"  Blake  murmured.  "Sorry  if  I  was 
a  bear!  Don't  switch  off  the  light,  it  won't  bother  me." 
He  nodded,  smiled,  drew  his  rug  closer  about  his  knees, 
and  settled  himself  to  sleep  with  the  ease  of  the  accus- 
tomed traveller. 

For  close  upon  an  hour  complete  silence  reigned  in  the 
heated  carriage.  Blake  slept  silently  and  peacefully; 
Billy  went  methodically  through  his  papers,  dropping 
them  one  by  one  at  his  feet  as  he  finished  with  them; 
McCutcheon  smoked,  gazing  into  space  with  the  blank 

ii 


MAX 

expression  of  the  strenuous  man  who  has  learned  to 
utilize  his  momentary  respites;  while,  stretched  alcg 
the  cushions  of  the  carriage,  his  face  hidden,  his  eyes 
wide  open  and  attentive,  lay  the  young  Russian,  his 
fingers  tentatively  caressing  the  treasure  in  the  pocket 
of  his  coat. 

But  at  last  the  spell  was  broken.  The  diplomatic 
Englishman  dropped  his  last  paper,  and  McCutcheon 
stretched  himself  and  looked  once  more  at  his  watch. 

"Paris  in  an  hour,  Billy!  Didn't  those  loafers  in  the 
dining-car  promise  us  coffee  somewhat  about  this  time  ?" 

Billy  looked  up,  unruffled  of  mind  and  body  as  in  the 
first  moment  of  the  journey.  "  I  believe  they  did,"  he 
said.  "  Tell  you  what !  You  jog  their  memories,  while 
I  go  and  wash.     What  about  calling  Ned?" 

At  sound  of  his  own  name,  Blake's  eyes  opened.  His 
waking  was  characteristic  of  him.  It  was  no  slow  re- 
covery of  the  senses;  he  was  asleep  and  then  awake- 
fully,  easily  awake,  with  a  complete  consciousness  of  his 
position — a  complete,  assured  grasp  of  time  and  place. 

"We're  getting  on,  eh?"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you're 
going  to  tub  before  those  fat  Belgians  in  the  sleeping- 
car,  Billy?  If  you  are,  keep  a  second  place  for  me,  like 
a  good  boy.  There's  nothing  more  fiendishly  triumphant 
than  taking  a  bath  in  the  basin  while  the  rest  of  the 
train  is  rattling  the  door-handle.  Don't  forget !  Second 
place!"  Then  he  turned  to  the  American.  "What 
about  the  coffee,  Mac?  I  expect  those  poor  devils  of 
waiters  have  slept  your  order  off." 

"  I  was  just  about  to  negotiate  that  coffee  transaction." 
McCutcheon  stood  up.  "You  come  too,  my  son!  A 
little  exercise  will  give  you  an  appetite."  He  paused  to 
stretch  his  long,  lean  body,  and  incidentally  his  glance 
fell  upon  their  travelling  companion,  and  he  indicated 
the  recumbent  figure  with  a  jerk  of  the  head. 

12 


MAX 

"Say,  Ned,  ought  we  to  wake  our  unsociable  friend?" 
Blake  cast  one  quick  glance  at  the  huddled  form,  then 
he  answered,  tersely:   "Let  him  alone!     He's  not  asleep 
—and,  anyway,  he  understands  English." 

At  which  McCutcheon  made  a  comprehending  grimace, 
and  the  two  left  the  carriage. 

For  many  minutes  the  young  Russian  did  not  move; 
then,  when  positive  certainty  of  his  solitude  had  grown 
into  his  mind,  he  lifted  himself  on  one  elbow  and  looked 
cautiously  about  him. 

A  change  had  passed  over  his  face  in  the  last  hour — 
an  interesting  change.  The  smooth  cheek  that  the  night 
air  had  cooled  to  paleness  was  now  flushed,  and  there 
was  a  spark  of  anger  in  the  bright  eyes.  Unquestionably 
this  boy  had  a  temper  and  a  spirit  of  his  own,  and  both 
had  been  aroused.  There  was  a  certain  arrogance,  a 
certain  contempt  in  his  glance  now  as  it  swept  the  inof- 
fensive coats  and  rugs  of  the  departed  travellers,  a  cer- 
tain antagonism  as  he  sat  up,  tossed  back  the  lock  of  hair 
that  had  again  fallen  across  his  forehead,  and  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  heap  of  papers  lying  upon  the  carriage  floor. 

For  long  he  gazed  upon  these  papers,  as  though  they 
exercised  a  magnetic  influence,  and  at  last,  with  a  swift 
impulse,  extremely  characteristic,  he  stretched  out  his 
arm  and  drew  forth  the  lowest  of  the  heap. 

He  regained  his  former  position  with  a  quick,  lithe 
movement  of  the  body,  and  in  an  instant  he  was  poring 
over  the  paper,  the  pages  turning  with  incredible  speed 
under  the  eagerness  of  his  touch.  At  last  he  reached 
the  page  he  sought,  the  page  that  had  offered  ground  for 
discussion  to  the  three  voyagers  an  hour  earlier. 

His  eyes  flashed,  his  fingers  tightened,  his  dark  head 
was  bent  lower  over  the  paper.  Two  pictures  confronted 
him.     The  first  was  of  a  woman  in  Russian  court  dress, 

2  13 


MAX 

who  wore  her  jewels  and  her  splendor  of  apparel  with 
an  air  of  pride  and  careless  supremacy  that  had  in  it 
something  magnificent,  something  semi-barbaric.  The 
boy  looked  at  this  curious  and  arresting  picture,  but  only 
for  a  moment;  by  some  affinity,  some  subtle  attraction, 
his  eyes  turned  instantly  to  the  second  portrait — the 
girl  carrying  the  gun — and  as  if  in  answer  to  some  secret 
sympathy,  some  silent  comprehension,  the  frown  upon 
his  brows  relaxed  and  his  lips  parted. 

It  was  still  the  woman  of  the  jewels  and  the  splendid 
apparel,  but  it  was  a  woman  infinitely  free,  infinitely  un- 
hampered. The  plain,  serviceable  clothes  fitted  the 
slight  figure  as  though  they  had  been  long  worn  and 
loved;  the  hair  was  closely  coiled,  so  that  the  young  face 
looked  out  upon  the  world  frank  and  unadorned  as  a 
boy's.  Here,  as  in  the  first  picture,  the  eyes  looked 
forth  with  a  curious,  proud  directness ;  but  beneath  the 
directness  was  a  glint  of  humor,  a  flash  of  daring  absent 
in  the  other  face;  the  mouth  smiled,  seeming  to  antici- 
pate life's  secrets,  the  ungloved  hand  held  the  gun  with 
a  touch  peculiarly  caressing,  peculiarly  firm. 

The  traveller  looked,  looked  again,  and  then,  with  a 
deliberation  odd  in  so  slight  a  circumstance,  folded  the 
paper,  rose,  and  stepped  to  the  window  of  the  carriage. 

The  night  mist  beat  in,  still  raw  and  cold,  but  some- 
where behind  the  darkness  was  the  stirring,  the  vague 
presage  of  the  day  to  come.  He  leaned  out,  fingers  close 
about  the  paper,  lips  and  nostrils  breathing  in  the  sug- 
gestive, vaporous  air.  For  a  moment  he  stood,  steady- 
ing himself  to  the  motion  of  the  train,  palpitating  to  his 
secret  thoughts;  then,  with  a  little  theatricality  all  for 
his  own  edification,  he  opened  his  fingers  and,  freeing  the 
paper,  watched  it  swirl  away,  hang  for  a  second  like  a 
moth  against  the  lighted  window,  and  vanish  into  the 
night. 

14 


CHAPTER  II 

JOURNEYS  end  in  lovers'  meeting.'  The  phrase 
conjures  a  picture.  The  court-yard  of  some  inn, 
glowing  ripe  in  the  tints  of  the  setting  sun — open  doors — 
an  ancient  coach  disgorging  its  passengers!  This — or, 
perhaps,  some  quay  alive  with  sound  and  movement — 
cries  of  command  in  varying  tongues — crowded  gang- 
ways— rigging  massed  against  the  sky — all  the  parapher- 
nalia of  romance  and  travel.  But  the  real  journey — the 
journey  of  adventure  itself — is  frequently  another  mat- 
ter: often  gray,  often  loverless,  often  demanding  from 
the  secret  soul  of  the  adventurer  spirit  and  inspiration, 
lest  the  blood  turn  cold  in  sick  dismay,  and  the  brain 
cloud  under  its  weight  of  nostalgia. 

Paris  in  the  dawn  of  a  wet  day  is  a  sorry  sight;  the 
Gare  du  Nord  in  the  hours  of  early  morning  is  a  place  of 
infinite  gloom.  As  the  north  express  thundered  into  its 
recesses,  waking  strange  and  hollow  echoes,  the  long 
sweep  of  the  platform  brought  a  shudder  to  more  than 
one  tired  mind.  A  string  of  sleepy  porters  —  gray  sil- 
houettes against  a  gray  background — was  the  only  sign 
of  life.  Colors  there  were  none,  lovers  there  were  none, 
Parisian  joy  of  living  there  was  not  one  vestige. 

Paris!  The  murmur  crept  through  the  train,  stirring 
the  weariest  to  mechanical  action.  Paris!  Heads  were 
thrust  through  the  windows,  wraps  and  hand-bags  passed 
out  to  the  shadowy,  mysterious  porters  who  received 
them  in  a  silence  born  of  the  godless  hour  and  the  pene- 
trating, chilling  dampness  of  the  atmosphere. 

15 


MAX 

In  the  carriage  fifth  or  sixth  from  the  engine  the  three 
fellow-travellers  greeted  the  arrival  in  the  orthodox  way. 
The  tall  American  stretched  his  long  limbs  and  groaned 
wearily  as  he  got  his  belongings  together,  while  the  dap- 
per young  Englishman  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window 
and  withdrew  it  as  rapidly. 

"Beastly  morning!"  he  announced.  "Paris  on  a  wet 
day  is  like  a  woman  with  draggled  skirts." 

"  Get  rid  of  our  belongings  first,  Billy,  make  epigrams 
after!"  The  man  called  Blake  pushed  him  quietly  aside 
and,  stepping  to  the  window,  dropped  a  leather  bag  into 
the  hands  of  a  porter. 

Of  the  three,  his  manner  was  the  most  indifferent,  his 
temper  the  most  unruffled;  and  of  the  three,  he  alone  re- 
membered the  fourth  occupant  of  the  carriage,  for,  being 
relieved  of  his  bag,  he  turned  with  his  hand  still  upon  the 
window,  and  his  eyes  sought  the  youthful  figure  drawn 
with  lonely  isolation  into  its  corner. 

"  Do  you  want  a  porter?"  he  asked. 

The  question  was  unexpected.  The  boy  started  and 
sat  straighter  in  his  seat.  For  one  moment  he  seemed 
to  sway  between  two  impulses,  then,  with  a  new  deter- 
mination, he  looked  straight  at  his  questioner  with  his 
clear  eyes. 

"  No,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  with  a  grave  de- 
liberation, "  I  do  not  need  a  porter.  I  have  no  luggage — 
but  this."  He  rose,  as  if  to  prove  the  truth  of  his  declara- 
tion, and  lifted  his  valise  from  the  rack. 

It  was  a  simple  movement,  simple  as  the  question  and 
answer  that  had  preceded  it,  but  it  held  interest  for 
Blake.  He  could  not  have  analyzed  the  impression,  but 
something  in  the  boy's  air  touched  him,  something  in 
the  young  figure  so  plainly  clad,  so  aloof,  stood  out  with 
sharp  appeal  in  the  grayness  and  unreality  of  the  dawn. 
A  feeling  that  was  neither  curiosity  nor  pity,  and  yet 

16 


MAX 

savored  of  both,  urged  him  to  further  speech.  As  his 
two  companions,  anxious  to  be  free  of  the  train,  passed 
out  into  the  corridor,  he  glanced  once  more  at  the  slight 
figure,  at  the  high  Russian  boots,  the  long  overcoat,  the 
fur  cap  drawn  down  over  the  dark  hair. 

"Look  here!  you  aren't  alone  in  Paris?"  he  asked 
in  the  easy,  impersonal  way  that  spoke  his  nationality. 
"You  have  people — friends  to  meet  you?" 

For  an  instant  the  look  that  had  possessed  the  boy's 
face  during  the  journey — the  look  of  suspicion  akin  to 
fear — leaped  up,  but  on  the  moment  it  was  conquered. 
The  well-poised  head  was  thrown  back,  and  again  the 
eyes  met  Blake's  in  a  deliberate  gaze. 

"Why  do  you  ask,  monsieur?" 

The  words  were  clipped,  the  tone  proud  and  a  little  cold. 

Another  man  might  have  hesitated  to  reply  truthfully, 
but  Blake  was  an  Irishman  and  used  to  self-expression. 

"  I  ask,"  he  said,  simply,  "  because  you  are  so  young." 

A  new  expression — a  new  daring— swept  the  boy's 
mobile  face.  A  spirit  of  raillery  gleamed  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  smiled  for  the  first  time. 

"How  old,  monsieur?" 

The  question,  the  smile  touched  Blake  anew.  He 
laughed  involuntarily  with  a  sudden  sense  of  friendliness. 

"  Sixteen  ? — seventeen  ?" 

The  boy,  still  smiling,  shook  his  head. 

"Guess  again,  monsieur." 

Blake's  interest  flashed  out.  Here,  in  the  gray  station, 
in  this  damp  hour  of  dawn,  he  had  touched  something 
magnetic — some  force  that  drew  and  held  him.  A  qual- 
ity intangible  and  indescribable  seemed  to  emanate  from 
this  unknown  boy,  some  strange  radiance  of  vitality  that 
flooded  his  surroundings  as  with  sunshine. 

"Eighteen,  then!"  He  laughed  once  more,  with  a 
curious  sense  of  pleasure. 

17 


MAX 

But  from  the  corridor  outside  a  slow  voice  was  borne 
back  on  the  damp,  close  air,  forbidding  further  parley. 

"Blake!  I  say,  Blake!  For  the  Lord's  sake,  get  a 
move  on!" 

The  spell  was  broken,  the  moment  of  companionship 
passed.  Blake  drifted  toward  the  carriage  door,  the 
boy  following. 

Outside  in  the  corridor  they  were  sucked  into  the 
stream  of  departing  passengers — that  odd  medley  of  men 
and  women,  unadorned,  jaded,  careless,  that  a  night 
train  disgorges.  Slowly,  step  by  step,  the  procession 
made  its  way,  each  unit  that  composed  it  glancing  in- 
voluntarily into  the  empty  carriages  that  he  passed — 
the  carriages  that,  in  their  dimmed  light,  their  airlessness, 
their  debris  of  papers,  seemed  to  be  a  reflection  of  his  own 
exhausted  condition ;  then  a  gust  of  chilly  air  told  of  the 
outer  world,  and  one  by  one  the  travellers  slid  through 
the  narrow  doorway,  each  instinctively  pausing  to  brace 
himself  against  the  biting  cold  before  stepping  down  upon 
the  platform. 

At  last  it  was  Blake's  turn.  He,  too,  paused;  then 
he,  too,  took  the  final  plunge,  shivered,  glanced  at  where 
McCutcheon  and  the  Englishman  were  talking  to  their 
porters,  then  turned  to  watch  the  Russian  boy  swing 
himself  lithely  down  from  the  high  step  of  the 
train. 

All  about  him  was  the  consciousness  of  the  awakening 
crowd,  conveyed  by  the  jostling  of  elbows,  the  deepening 
hum  of  voices. 

"  Look  here!"  he  said  again,  in  response  to  his  original 
impulse.     "  You  have  somebody  to  meet  you  ?" 

The  boy  glanced  up,  a  secret  emotion  burning  in  his 
eyes.     "No,  monsieur." 

"  You  are  quite  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur.'7 

18 


MAX 

"And  why  are  you  here — to  play  or  to  work?" 

The  question  was  unwarrantable,  but  an  Irishman  can 
dispense  with  warranty  in  a  manner  unknown  to  other 
men.  It  had  ever  been  Blake's  way  to  ask  what  he 
desired  to  know. 

This  time  no  offence  showed  itself  in  the  boy's  face. 

"In  part  to  work,  in  part  to  play,  monsieur,"  he  an- 
swered, gravely;   "in  part  to  learn  life." 

The  reply  was  strange  to  Blake's  ears — strange  in  its 
grave  sincerity,  stranger  still  in  its  quiet  fearlessness. 

"But  you  are  such  a  child!"  he  cried,  impulsively. 
"You—" 

Imperceptibly  the  slight  figure  stiffened,  the  proud  look 
flashed  again  into  the  eyes. 

"  Many  thanks,  monsieur,  but  I  am  older  than  you 
think — and  very  independent.  I  have  the  honor  mon- 
sieur, to  wish  you  good-bye." 

The  tone  was  absolutely  courteous,  but  it  was  final. 
He  bowed  with  easy  foreign  grace,  raised  his  fur  cap, 
and,  turning,  swung  down  the  platform  and  out  of  sight. 

Blake  stood  watching  him — watching  until  the  high 
head,  the  straight  shoulders,  the  lithe,  swinging  body 
were  but  a  memory;  then  he  turned  with  a  start,  as  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  the  pleasant, 
prosaic  voice  of  the  young  Englishman  assailed  his  ears. 

"  My  dear  chap,  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  ? 
Not  day-dreaming  with  the  mercury  at  thirty?" 

"Foolish — but  I  was!"  Blake  answered,  calmly.  "I 
was  watching  that  young  Russian  stalk  away  into  the 
unknown,  and  I  was  wondering — " 

"What?" 

He  smiled  a  little  cynically.  "  I  was  wondering,  Billy, 
what  type  of  individual  and  what  particular  process  fate 
will  choose  to  let  him  break  himself  upon." 


19 


MAX 

The  most  splendid  moment  of  an  adventure  is  not 
always  the  moment  of  fulfilment,  not  even  the  moment 
of  conception,  but  the  moment  of  first  accomplishment, 
when  the  adventurer  deliberately  sets  his  face  toward 
the  new  road,  knowing  that  his  boats  are  burned. 

Nothing  could  have  been  less  inspiring  than  the  dreary 
Gare  du  Nord,  nothing  less  inviting  than  the  glimpse  of 
Paris  to  be  caught  through  its  open  doorways;  but  had 
the  whole  world  laughed  him  a  welcome,  the  young  Rus- 
sian's step  could  not  have  been  more  elastic,  his  courage 
higher,  his  heart  more  ready  to  pulse  to  the  quick  march 
of  his  thoughts,  as  he  strode  down  the  gray  platform 
and  out  into  the  open. 

In  the  open  he  paused  to  study  his  surroundings.  As 
yet  the  full  tale  of  passengers  had  not  emerged,  and  only 
an  occasional  wayfarer,  devoid  of  baggage  as  himself,  had 
fared  forth  into  the  gloom.  Outside,  the  artificial  light 
of  the  station  ceased  to  do  battle  with  nature,  and  only  an 
occasional  street  lamp  gave  challenge  to  the  gloomy 
dawn.  The  damp  mist  that  all  night  had  enshrouded 
Paris  still  clung  about  the  streets  like  ragged  grave- 
clothes,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement  half  a  dozen 
fiacres  were  ranged  in  a  melancholy  line,  the  wretched 
horses  dozing  as  they  stood,  the  drivers  huddled  into 
their  fur  capes  and  numbed  by  the  clinging  cold.  Every- 
where was  darkness  and  chill  and  the  listless  misery  of  a 
winter  dawn,  when  vitality  is  at  its  lowest  ebb  and  the 
passions  of  man  are  sunk  in  lethargy. 

Only  a  creature  infinitely  young  could  have  held  firm 
in  face  of  such  dejection,  only  eyes  as  alert  and  wakeful 
as  those  of  this  wayfaring  boy  could  possibly  have  looked 
undaunted  at  the  shabby  streets  with  their  flaunting 
travesty  of  joy  exhibited  in  the  dripping  awnings  of  the 
deserted  cafes,  that  offered  Biere,  Billard,  and  yet  again 
Biere  to  an  impassive  world. 

20 


MAX 

But  the  eyes  were  wakeful,  the  soul  of  the  adventurer 
was  infinitely  young.  He  looked  at  it  all  with  a  certain 
steadfastness  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Yes,  I  see  you!  You 
are  hideous,  slatternly,  unfriendly;  but  through  all  the 
disguise  I  recognize  you.  Through  the  mask  I  trace  the 
features — subtle,  alluring,  fascinating.  You  are  Paris! 
Paris!" 

The  idea  quickened  action  as  a  draught  of  wine  might 
quicken  thought;  his  hand  involuntarily  tightened  upon 
his  valise,  his  body  braced  itself  afresh,  and,  as  if  re- 
signing himself  finally  to  chance,  that  deity  loved  of  all 
true  adventurers,  he  stepped  from  the  pavement  into  the 
greasy  roadway. 

Seeing  him  move,  a  loafer,  crouching  in  the  shadow 
of  the  station,  slunk  reluctantly  into  the  open  and  offered 
to  procure  him  a  fiacre;  but  the  boy's  shake  of  the  head 
was  determined,  and,  crossing  the  road,  he  turned  to  the 
left,  gazing  up  with  eager  interest  at  the  many  hotels 
that  rub  shoulders  in  that  uninteresting  region. 

One  after  the  other  he  reviewed  and  rejected  them, 
moving  onward  with  the  excitement  that  is  born  of 
absolute  uncertainty.  Onward  he  went,  without  pause, 
until  the  pavement  was  intersected  by  a  side-street,  and 
peering  up  through  the  misty  light  he  read  the  legend, 
"rue  de  Dunkerque." 

Rue  de  Dunkerque !  It  conveyed  nothing  to  his  mind. 
But  was  he  not  seeking  the  unknown?  Again  his  head 
went  up,  again  his  shoulders  stiffened,  and,  smiling  to 
himself  at  some  secret  thought,  he  swung  round  the  cor- 
ner and  plunged  into  the  unexplored. 

Half  way  down  the  rue  de  Dunkerque  stands  the  Hotel 
Railleux.  It  is  a  tall  and  narrow  house,  somewhat  dirty 
and  entirely  undistinguished ;  there  is  nothing  to  recom- 
mend it  save  perhaps  an  air  of  privacy,  a  certain  in- 
significance  that  wedges  it  between   the  surrounding 

21 


MAX 

buildings  in  a  manner  tempting  to  one  anxious  to  avoid 
his  fellows. 

This  quality  it  was  that  caught  the  boy's  attention. 
He  paused  and  studied  the  Hotel  Railleux  with  an  atten- 
tion that  he  had  denied  to  the  large  and  common  hos- 
telries  that  front  the  station.  He  looked  at  it  long  and 
meditatively,  then  very  slowly  and  thoughtfully  he 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  street.  At  the  end  of  the  street 
he  turned,  his  mind  made  up,  and,  hurrying  back,  went 
straight  into  the  hall  of  the  hotel  as  though  thirsting  to 
pledge  himself  irrevocably  to  his  decision. 

It  is  impossible  for  the  sensible  individual  to  see  ro- 
mance in  this  entry  into  a  third-rate  Parisian  hotel — to 
see  daring  or  to  see  danger — but  the  boy's  heart  was 
beating  fast  as  the  glass  door  swung  behind  him,  and  his 
tongue  was  dry  as  he  stepped  into  the  little  office  on  the 
right  of  the  poor  hall. 

Here  in  the  office  the  story  of  the  streets  was  repeated. 
A  dingy  gas-jet  shed  a  faint  light,  as  though  reluctantly 
awake;  behind  a  small  partition,  half  counter,  half  desk, 
a  wan  and  sleepy  -  looking  man  was  cowering  over 
a  stove.  As  the  boy  entered  he  looked  up  uncer- 
tainly, then  he  rose  and  smiled,  for  your  Parisian 
is  exhausted  indeed  when  he  fails  to  conjure  up 
a  smile. 

"Good-day,  monsieur!" 

The  words  were  a  travesty  in  view  of  the  miserable 
dawn,  but  the  boy  took  heart.  There  was  greeting  in 
the  tone.  He  moistened  his  lips,  which  felt  dry  as  his 
tongue  in  his  momentary  nervousness,  then  he  stepped 
closer  to  the  counter. 

"Good-day,  monsieur!     I  require  a  bedroom." 

"A  bedroom?  But  certainly,  monsieur!"  The 
shrewd  though  tired  eyes  of  the  man  passed  over  his 
visitor's  clothes  and  the  valise  in  his  hand.     "We  can 

22 


MAX 

give  you  a  most  excellent  room  at" — he  raised  his  eye- 
brows in  tactful  hesitation — "at  five  francs?" 

The  boy's  eyes  opened  in  genuine,  instant  surprise. 
"  For  so  little  ?"  he  exclaimed.  Then,  covered  with  con- 
fusion, he  reddened  furiously  and  stammered,  "  For — 
for  so  much,  I  mean?" 

The  man  in  the  office  was  all  smooth  politeness,  anx- 
ious to  cover  a  foreigner's  slip  of  speech.  '  But  cer- 
tainly, no !  If  five  francs  was  more  than  monsieur  cared 
to  pay,  then  for  three  francs  there  was  a  most  charming, 
a  most  agreeable  room  on  the  fifth  floor.  True,  it  did 
not  look  upon  the  street,  but  then  perhaps  monsieur  pre- 
ferred quiet.  If  monsieur  would  give  himself  the  trouble 
of  mounting — ' 

Monsieur,  still  confused  by  his  own  mistake,  and  ner- 
vously anxious  to  insist  upon  his  position,  repeated  again 
that  five  francs  was  out  of  the  question,  and  that,  with- 
out giving  himself  the  trouble  of  mounting,  he  would 
then  and  there  decide  upon  the  agreeable  and  quiet  room 
at  three  francs. 

'But  certainly!  It  was  understood!'  The  guardian 
of  the  office,  now  fully  awake  and  aroused  to  interest  in 
this  princely  transaction,  disappeared  from  behind  the 
counter  into  the  back  regions  of  the  hotel,  and  could  be 
heard  calling  "Jean!  Jean!"  in  a  high,  insistent  tone. 

After  some  moments  of  silence  he  returned,  followed  by 
a  large  and  amiable  individual  in  a  dirty  blue  blouse,  who 
had  apparently  but  lately  arisen  from  sleep. 

'  Now  if  monsieur  would  intrust  his  baggage  to  the 
valet — ' 

The  guardian  of  the  office  took  a  key  from  a  nail  in  the 
wall.  Jean  stepped  forward,  pleased  and  self-conscious, 
and  took  the  valise  from  the  boy's  hand.  Then  all  three 
smiled  and  bowed. 

It  was  one  of  those  foolish  little  comedies — utterly  un- 

23 


MAX 

necessary,  curiously  pleasant — that  occur  twenty  times 
a  day  in  Parisian  life.  Involuntarily  the  adventurer's 
heart  warmed  to  the  pallid  clerk  and  to  the  dirty  hotel 
porter.  He  had  arrived  here  without  luggage,  shabby, 
unrecommended,  yet  no  princely  compatriot  of  his  own 
could  have  been  made  more  sensible  of  welcome.  He 
stepped  out  of  the  office  and  followed  his  guide,  conscious 
that,  if  only  for  an  instant,  Paris  had  lifted  her  mask 
and  smiled — the  radiant,  anticipated  smile. 

There  is  no  such  unnecessary  luxury  as  a  lift  in  the 
Hotel  Railleux.  At  the  back  of  the  hall  the  spiral  stair- 
case begins  its  steep  ascent,  mounting  to  unimagined 
heights. 

Jean,  breathing  audibly,  led  the  way,  pausing  at  every 
landing  to  assure  monsieur  that  the  ascent  was  nothing — 
a  mere  nothing,  and  that  before  another  thought  could 
pass  through  monsieur's  mind  the  fifth  floor  would  be 
reached.  The  boy  followed,  climbing  and  ever  climbing, 
until  the  meagre  hand-rail  appeared  to  lengthen  into 
dream-like  coils,  and  the  threadbare,  drab-hued  carpet, 
with  its  vivid  red  border,  to  assume  the  proportions  of 
some  confusing  scroll. 

But  at  length  the  end  was  reached,  and  Jean,  beaming 
and  triumphant,  announced  their  goal. 

'  This  way !  If  monsieur  would  have  the  goodness  to 
take  two  steps  in  this  direction !'  He  dived  into  a  long, 
dark  corridor,  illuminated  by  a  single  flickering  gas-jet, 
twin  brother  to  that  which  lighted  the  office  below;  and, 
still  eager,  still  breathing  loudly,  he  ushered  the  guest 
toward  what  in  his  humble  soul  he  believed  to  be  the 
luxurious,  the  impressive  bedroom  supplied  by  the  Hotel 
Railleux  at  three  francs  a  night. 

The  boy  looked  about  him  as  he  passed  down  the  dim 
corridor.  Apparently  he  and  Jean  alone  were  awake  in 
this  gloomy  maze  of  closed  doors  and  sleeping  passages. 

24 


MAX 

One  sign  of  humanity — and  one  alone — came  to  his 
senses  with  a  suggestion  of  sordid  drama.  On  the  floor, 
at  the  closed  door  of  one  of  the  rooms,  stood  a  battered 
black  tray  on  which  reposed  an  empty  champagne  bottle 
and  two  soiled  glasses. 

Life !  His  quick  imagination  conjured  a  picture — con- 
jured and  shrank  from  it.  He  turned  away  with  a  sense 
of  sharp  disgust  and  almost  ran  down  the  corridor  to 
where  Jean  was  fitting  a  key  into  the  door  of  his  pros- 
pective bedroom. 

"  The  room,  monsieur!"  Jean's  voice  was  full  of  pride. 
He  had  lived  for  ten  years  in  the  Hotel  Railleux,  work- 
ing as  six  men  and  six  women  together  would  not  have 
worked  in  the  fashionable  quarter,  and  he  had  never 
been  shaken  in  his  belief  that  Paris  held  no  more  inviting 
hostelry. 

The  boy  obediently  stepped  forward  into  the  tiny 
apartment,  in  which  a  big  wooden  bedstead  loomed  out 
of  all  proportion.  His  movements  were  hasty,  as  though 
he  desired  to  escape  from  some  impression;  his  voice, 
when  he  spoke,  was  vague. 

"Very  nice!  Very  nice!"  he  said.  "And — and  what 
is  the  view?" 

"The  view?  Oh,  but  monsieur  will  like  the  view!" 
Jean  stepped  to  the  window,  drew  back  the  heavy  cre- 
tonne curtains,  and  threw  open  the  long  window,  ad- 
mitting a  breath  of  chilling  cold.  "The  court-yard! 
See,  monsieur!     The  court-yard!" 

The  boy  came  forward  into  the  biting  air  and  gazed 
down  into  the  well-like  depths  of  gloom,  at  the  bottom 
of  which  could  be  discerned  a  small  flagged  court,  orna- 
mented by  a  couple  of  dwarfed  and  frost-bitten  trees  in 
painted  tubs. 

Jean,  watchful  of  the  visitor's  face,  broke  forth  anew 
with  inexhaustible  tact. 

25 


MAX 

'  It  was  a  fine  view  —  monsieur  would  admit  that ! 
But,  naturally,  it  was  not  the  street!  Now  No.  107, 
across  the  corridor — at  five  francs — ?' 

Monsieur  was  aroused.  "  No !  No !  certainly  not. 
The  view  was  of  no  consequence.  The  bed  looked  all 
right." 

'  The  bed !'  Here  Jean  spoke  with  deep  feeling.  '  There 
was  no  better  bed  in  Paris.  Had  he  not  himself  put  clean 
sheets  on  it  that  day?'  He  turned  from  the  window, 
and  with  the  hand  of  an  expert  displayed  the  beauties  of 
the  sparse  blankets,  the  cotton  sheets,  and  the  mountain- 
ous double  mattress. 

'But  monsieur  was  anxious  to  retire?  Doubtless 
monsieur  would  sleep  until  dejeuner?  A  most  excellent 
dejeuner  was  served  in  the  salle-a-manger  on  the  second 
floor.' 

The  words  flowed  forth  in  a  stream — agreeable, 
monotonous,  reminiscent  of  the  far-away  province  that 
had  long  ago  bred  this  good  creature.  Suddenly  the 
exhaustion  of  the  long  journey,  the  sleep  so  long  denied 
rose  about  the  traveller  like  a  misty  vapor.  He  longed 
for  solitude;  he  pined  for  rest. 

"  I  am  satisfied  with  everything,"  he  said,  abruptly. 
"  Leave  me.     I  have  not  been  in  bed  for  two  nights." 

A  flood  of  sympathy  overspread  Jean's  face:  he  threw 
up  his  hands.  "  Poor  boy !  Poor  boy !  What  a  terrible 
thing!"  With  a  touch  as  light  as  a  woman's  his  work- 
worn  fingers  smoothed  the  pillow  invitingly,  and,  tiptoe- 
ing to  the  door,  he  disappeared  in  tactful  and  silent  com- 
prehension of  the  situation. 

Vaguely  the  boy  was  conscious  of  his  departure.  A 
great  lassitude  was  falling  upon  him,  making  him  value 
the  isolation  of  his  three-franc  room  with  a  deep  grati- 
tude, turning  his  gaze  toward  the  unpromising  bed  with 
an  indescribable   longing.     Mechanically,   as  the   door 

26 


MAX 

closed,  he  threw  off  his  heavy  overcoat,  kicked  off  his 
high  boots,  discarded  his  coat  and  trousers,  and,  without 
waiting  to  search  in  his  bag  for  another  garment,  stepped 
into  bed  and  curled  himself  up  in  the  flannel  shirt  he  had 
worn  all  day. 

The  bed  was  uncomfortable  with  that  extraordinary 
discomfort  of  the  old-fashioned  French  bed,  that  feels  as 
though  it  were  padded  with  cotton  wool  of  indescribable 
heaviness.  The  sheets  were  coarse,  the  multitudinous 
clothes  were  weighty  without  being  warm,  but  no  prince 
on  his  bed  of  ros^s  ever  rested  with  more  luxury  of  repose 
than  did  this  young  adventurer  as,  drawing  the  blankets 
to  his  chin,  he  stretched  his  limbs  with  the  slow,  delicious 
enjoyment  born  of  long  travel. 

Jean  had  drawn  the  cretonne  curtains,  but  through 
their  chinks  streaks  of  bluish,  shadowy  light  presaged  the 
coming  day.  From  his  lair  the  boy  looked  out  at  these 
ghostly  fingers  of  the  morning,  then  his  eyes  travelled 
round  the  dark  room  until  at  last  they  rested  upon  his 
clothes  lying,  as  he  had  thrown  them,  on  the  floor.  He 
looked  at  them — the  boots,  the  coat  and  trousers,  the 
heavy  overcoat — and  suddenly  some  imperative  thought 
banished  sleep  from  his  eyes.  He  sat  up  in  bed;  he 
shivered  as  the  cold  air  nipped  his  shoulder;  then,  un- 
hesitatingly, he  slipped  from  between  the  sheets  and  slid 
out  upon  the  floor. 

The  room  was  small ;  the  clothes  lay  within  an  arm's 
length.  He  shivered  again,  stooped,  and,  picking  up  the 
overcoat,  dived  his  hand  into  the  deep  pocket,  and  drew 
forth  the  packet  that  he  had  guarded  so  tenaciously  in 
the  train. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  at  it  in  the  blue  light 
of  the  dawn — a  thick  brown  packet,  seven  or  eight  inches 
long,  tied  with  string  and  sealed.  Once  or  twice  he 
looked  at  it,  seemingly  lost  in  reflection;  once  or  twice 

27 


MAX 


he  turned  it  about  in  his  hand  as  if  to  make  certain  it  was 
intact;  then,  with  a  deep  sigh  indicative  of  satisfaction, 
he  stepped  back  into  bed,  slipped  the  packet  under  his 
pillow  and,  with  his  fingers  faithfully  enlaced  in  the 
string,  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  eleven  o'clock  when  the  boy  woke.  All  the 
excitement  of  the  past  days  had  culminated  in  the 
great  exhaustion  of  the  night  before. 

He  had  slept  as  a  child  might  sleep — dreamlessly, 
happily,  unthinkingly.  In  that  silent  hour  Nature  had 
drawn  him  into  her  wide  embrace,  lulling  him  with  a 
mother's  gentleness;  and  now,  in  the  moment  of  waking, 
it  seemed  that  again  the  same  beneficent  agency  was  dis- 
pensing love  and  favor,  for  he  opened  his  eyes  upon  a 
changed  world.  A  magician's  wand  had  been  waved 
over  the  city  during  his  hours  of  sleep;  the  mist  and 
oppression  of  the  night  had  disappeared  with  the  dark- 
ness.    Paris  was  under  the  dominion  of  the  frost. 

Instinctively,  even  before  his  eyelids  lifted,  the  north- 
ern soul  within  him  apprised  him  of  this  change.  He 
inhaled  the  crisp  coldness  of  the  air  with  a  vague  famil- 
iarity; he  opened  his  eyes  slowly  and  stared  about  the 
unknown  room  in  an  instant  of  hesitating  doubt;  then, 
with  a  great  leap  of  the  spirit,  he  recognized  his  position. 
Last  night — the  days  and  nights  that  had  preceded  it — 
flooded  his  consciousness,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  out  of 
bed  and  pulling  back  the  drab-hued  curtains  that  hid  the 
window. 

Having  freed  the  daylight,  he  leaned  out,  peering 
greedily  down  into  the  well-like  court,  where  even  the 
stunted  trees  in  their  painted  tubs  were  coated  white  with 
rime;  then,  with  another  impulse,  as  quickly  conceived, 
as  quickly  executed,  he  drew  back  into  the  room,  fired 
3  29 


MAX 

with  the  desire  to  be  out  and  about  in  this  newly  created 
world. 

By  day,  the  details  of  the  room  stood  out  with  a 
prominence  that  had  been  denied  them  in  the  dim  candle- 
light of  the  night  before,  and  he  realized  now,  what  had 
escaped  him  then,  that  there  was  neither  dressing-table, 
wardrobe,  nor  chest  of  drawers,  that  the  entire  space  of 
the  small  apartment  was  filled  by  the  clumsy  bed,  a 
folding  wash-stand,  and  two  ponderous  arm-chairs  cov- 
ered in  shabby  red  velvet.  These,  with  a  dingy  gold- 
framed  mirror  hanging  above  the  tiny  corner  fireplace, 
and  a  gilt  clock  under  a  glass  shade,  formed  the  com- 
forts purchasable  for  three  francs. 

He  studied  it  all  solemnly  and  attentively,  not  omitting 
the  gray  wall-paper  of  melancholy  design,  and  content 
that  he  had  acquitted  himself  dutifully  toward  his  sur- 
roundings, he  unpacked  his  valise,  and  proceeded  to  dress 
for  the  day's  happenings. 

The  contents  of  the  valise  were  not  imposing — a  change 
of  linen,  a  soft  felt  hat,  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  a  well-worn 
blue  serge  suit.  The  boy  looked  at  each  article  as  he 
drew  it  forth  with  a  quaint  attentiveness  quite  dispro- 
portionate to  either  its  appearance  or  its  value.  But  the 
process  seemed  to  please  him,  and  he  lingered  over  it, 
ceasing  almost  reluctantly  to  appraise  his  belongings,  and 
beginning  to  dress. 

This  morning  he  discarded  the  high  Russian  boots  and 
the  fur  cap  of  yesterday,  and  arrayed  himself  instead, 
and  with  much  precision,  in  the  serge  suit.  Worn  as 
this  suit  was,  it  evidently  retained  a  pristine  value  in  its 
owner's  eyes,  for  no  sooner  had  he  fastened  the  last  but- 
ton of  the  coat  than  he  looked  instinctively  for  the  mir- 
ror in  which  to  study  the  effect. 

The  mirror  unfortunately  was  high  and,  crane  his 
neck  as  he  might,   he  could  see  nothing  beyond  the 

.3° 


MAX 

waves  of  his  short,  dark  hair  and  his  eager,  questioning 
eyes.  But  the  effect  must  be  observed,  and,  with  an 
anxiety  in  seeming  contrast  to  his  nature,  he  pulled  one 
of  the  massive  velvet  chairs  to  the  fireplace  and,  mount- 
ing upon  it,  surveyed  himself  at  every  angle  with  deep 
intentness.  At  last,  satisfied,  he  jumped  to  the  ground, 
and  taking  the  brown-paper  packet  from  the  hiding- 
place  where  it  had  reposed  all  night,  bestowed  it  again  in 
the  pocket  of  his  overcoat  and,  picking  up  the  felt  hat, 
left  the  room. 

The  corridor,  despite  the  advent  of  the  day,  was  still 
dark,  save  where  an  occasional  door  stood  ajar  and  a 
shaft  of  sun  from  the  outer  world  shot  across  the  drab 
carpet ;  but  Jean  had  been  over  the  floor  with  his  broom 
while  the  hotel  slept,  and  the  battered  tray  with  its  sug- 
gestion of  sordid  festivity  had  been  removed.  Even  here 
the  electric  air  of  the  morning  had  made  entry,  and, 
yielding  to  its  seduction,  the  boy  gave  rein  to  his  eager- 
ness as  he  hurried  forward  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  meagre  banister. 

From  the  hall  below  the  white  light  of  the  day  ascended 
with  subtle  invitation,  while  outside  the  world  hummed 
with  possibilities.  He  began  the  descent,  light  as  a 
Mercury,  his  feet  scarcely  touching  the  steps  that  last 
night  had  offered  so  toilsome  a  progress,  and  on  the  third 
floor  he  encountered  Jean,  bearing  another  tray  laden 
with  plates  and  covered  dishes. 

At  sight  of  the  young  face,  the  good  creature's  smile 
broke  forth  irresistibly. 

'  Ah,  but  monsieur  had  slept !'  The  little  eyes  ran  over 
the  face  and  figure  of  the  guest  with  visible  pleasure. 

The  boy  laughed — the  full,  light-hearted  laugh  that 
belongs  to  the  beginning  of  things. 

"  Yes,  I  have  slept;  and  now,  you  may  believe,  I  have 
an  appetite!" 

31 


MAX 

Jean  echoed  the  laugh  with  a  spontaneity  that  held 
no  disrespect.  He  lingered,  drawn,  as  the  Irishman  in 
the  train  had  been  drawn,  by  something  original,  some- 
thing vital,  in  the  youthful  personality. 

'  His  faith !  But  monsieur  had  the  spirit  as  well  as  the 
appetite !' 

"  Ah,  the  spirit!"  For  a  fleeting  second  the  boy's  eyes 
looked  away  beyond  Jean — untidy,  attentive,  compre- 
hending— beyond  the  neutral-tinted  walls  and  the  shabby 
carpet  of  the  Hotel  Railleux,  seeing  in  vision  the  things 
that  were  to  come.  Then,  with  his  swift  impulsiveness, 
he  flung  his  dream  from  him.  What  mattered  the 
future  ?  What  mattered  the  past  ?  He  was  here  in  the 
present — in  the  moment;  and  the  moment,  great  or 
small,  demanded  living. 

"Never  mind  the  spirit,  Jean!  Let  us  consider  the 
flesh!     Where  is  the  salle-a-manger?" 

'The  salle-a-manger  was  on  the  second  floor.' 

'The  second  floor?  But  of  course!  Had  not  Jean 
mentioned  that  fact  last  night?'  With  a  nod  and  a 
smile,  he  was  away  down  the  intervening  steps  and  at 
the  door  of  the  eating-room  before  Jean  could  balance 
his  tray  for  his  renewed  ascent. 

The  room  that  the  boy  entered  was  in  keeping  with 
the  rest  of  the  house — old-fashioned  and  in  ill-repair. 
The  floor  was  devoid  of  covering,  the  ceiling  low,  the 
only  furniture  a  dozen  small  tables  meagrely  set  out  for 
dejeuner.  On  the  moment  of  his  entry  eleven  of  these 
tables  were  unoccupied,  but  at  the  twelfth  an  eager 
young  waiter  attended  upon  a  stout  provincial  French- 
woman who  was  partaking  heartily  of  a  pungently  smell- 
ing stew. 

On  the  opening  of  the  door  the  waiter  glanced  round 
in  strained  anticipation,  and  the  lady  of  the  stew  looked 
up  and  bowed  a  greeting  to  the  new-comer. 

32 


MAX 

It  struck  the  boy  as  curious — this  welcome  from  a 
total  stranger,  but  it  woke  anew  the  pleasant  warmth, 
the  agreeable  sense  of  friendliness.  With  the  tingling 
sensation  of  doing  a  daring  deed,  he  glanced  round  the 
empty  room,  scanned  the  two  long  windows  on  which 
the  cold,  bright  sun  played  laughingly,  and  through 
which  the  rattle  and  hum  of  the  rue  de  Dunkerque  pen- 
etrated like  an  exhilarating  accompaniment,  then  he 
walked  straight  to  the  table  of  the  lady,  smiled  and,  in 
his  own  turn,  bowed. 

'  Would  madame  permit  him  to  sit  at  her  table  ?  It 
was  sad  to  be  alone  upon  so  fine  a  morning.' 

A  woman  of  any  other  nationality  might  have  looked 
at  him  askance;  but  madame  was  French.  She  was 
fifty  years  of  age,  she  was  fat,  she  was  ugly — but  she  was 
French.  The  sense  of  a  pleasant  encounter — the  appre- 
ciation of  romance  was  in  her  blood.  She  smiled  at  the 
debonair  boy  with  as  agreeable  a  self-consciousness  as 
though  she  had  been  a  young  girl. 

'  But  certainly,  if  monsieur  desired.  The  pleasure  was 
for  her.' 

Again  an  interchange  of  bows  and  smiles,  sympathetic- 
ally repeated  by  the  interested  young  waiter.  Then  the 
boy,  laying  his  hat  and  coat  aside,  seated  himself  at  the 
table  and  entered  upon  the  business  of  the  hour,  while  ma- 
dame became  tactfully  absorbed  in  her  odoriferous  stew. 

'What  did  monsieur  desire?'  The  waiter  stood  anx- 
iously attentive,  his  head  inclining  gravely  to  one  side, 
his  dirty  napkin  swinging  from  his  left  hand. 

The  boy  glanced  up. 

*  What  could  the  Hotel  Railleux  offer?' 

The  waiter  met  his  eye  steadfastly.  'Anything  that 
monsieur  cared  to  order.' 

The  boy  encountered  the  steadfast  look,  and  a  little 
gleam  of  humor  shot  into  his  eyes. 

33 


MAX 

'Well,  then,  to  begin  with,  should  they  say  Sole 
WaleskaV 

The  waiter's  glance  wavered,  he  threw  the  weight  of 
his  body  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  Involuntarily 
madame  looked  up. 

The  boy  buried  himself  behind  an  expression  of  pro- 
found seriousness. 

"Yes!  Sole  Waleska!  Or,  perhaps,  Coulibiac  a  la 
Russe!" 

The  waiter's  mouth  opened  in  a  desperate  resolve  to 
meet  the  worst.  Madame's  eyes  discreetly  sought  her 
plate. 

The  boy  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud  at 
his  own  small  jest.  "  Bring  me  two  eggs  en  cocotte,"  he 
substituted,  and  laughed  again  in  sheer  pleasure  at  the 
waiter's  sudden  smile,  his  sudden  restoration  to  dignity, 
as  he  hurried  away  to  put  a  seal  upon  an  order  that  per- 
mitted the  hotel  to  retain  its  self-respect. 

Again  madame  looked  up.  '  Monsieur  was  fond  of  his 
little  pleasantry !  This  waiter  was  a  good  boy,  but  slow. 
They  did  not  keep  a  sufficiency  of  servants  at  the  Hotel 
Railleux.     But  doubtless  monsieur  had  noticed  that?' 

The  boy  met  her  inquisitive  glance  with  disarming 
frankness,  but  his  words  when  he  answered  gave  little 
information. 

'  No.     He  had  not  as  yet  had  time  to  notice  anything.' 

1  But  of  course !  Monsieur  was  a  new  arrival  ?  He 
had  come — when  was  it — ?'  Madame  appeared  to 
search  her  memory. 

'Yesterday.' 

'  But  of  course.  Yesterday!  And  what  a  day  it  had 
been!  What  weather  for  a  long  journey!  It  had  been 
a  long  journey,  had  it  not  ?' 

The  boy  looked  vague.  '  Oh,  it  had  been  of  a  sufficient 
length!' 

34 


MAX 

Madame  toyed  with  the  remnants  of  her  stew.  'It 
had,  perhaps,  been  a  journey  from  England?  Monsieur 
was  not  French,  although  he  had  so  charming  a  fluency 
in  the  language?'  Her  eyes,  her  whole  provincial,  in- 
quisitive face  begged  for  information,  but  the  boy  was 
firm. 

'We  are  each  of  the  country  God  has  given  us!'  he 
informed  her.  Then  he  added  with  convincing  certainty 
that  madame  was  without  doubt  Parisienne. 

Madame  bridled  at  the  soothing  little  falsehood. 

'Alas!  nothing  so  interesting.  She  was  of  the  prov- 
inces.' 

'  Provincial !     Impossible !' 

At  once  the  ice  was  broken ;  at  once  they  were  on  the 
footing  of  friends,  and  madame's  soul  poured  forth  its 
secret  vanities. 

'Monsieur  was  too  kind.  No,  she  was  provincial — 
though,  of  a  truth,  Paris  was  so  well  known  to  her  that 
she  might  almost  claim  to  be  Parisienne.' 

The  boy's  interest  was  undiminished.  'Might  he 
venture  to  ask  if  it  was  pleasure  alone  that  had  brought 
madame  to  the  capital — or  had  business —  ?'  He  left  the 
sentence  discreetly  unfinished. 

Madame  pushed  her  empty  plate  away  and  took  a 
toothpick  from  the  table. 

'  How  observant  was  monsieur !'  She  eyed  the  bright 
young  face  with  growing  approval.  '  Yes,  business,  alas, 
was  the  pivot  of  her  visit !  This  terrible  business — exact- 
ing so  much,  giving  so  little  in  return!'  She  heaved  a 
weighty  sigh,  then  her  fat  face  melted  into  smiles.  '  But 
after  all,  what  would  you?'  She  shrugged  her  ample 
shoulders,  and  the  toothpick  came  into  full  play. 

'  What  would  you,  indeed  ?'  The  boy  began  to  feel  a 
little  disconcerted  under  her  glance  of  slow  approval, 
and  a  swift  sense  of  relief  passed  through  him  as  the  door 

35 


MAX 

opened  and  the  waiter  reappeared,  carrying  the  two 
eggs. 

'  What  would  you,  indeed  ?  One  must  live !'  Madame, 
disregarding  the  waiter,  continued  to  study  the  boyish 
face — the  curious  dark-gray  eyes,  in  which  the  morning 
sun  was  discovering  little  flecks  of  gold.  '  And  every 
year  conditions  were  becoming  harder,  as  monsieur 
doubtless  knew.' 

Monsieur  nodded  his  head  sagely,  and  began  to  eat  his 
eggs  with  keen  zest. 

Madame  looked  slowly  round  at  the  waiter  and  or- 
dered coffee,  then  her  glance  returned  to  the  boy. 

'  How  good,  how  refreshing  it  was  to  see  him  eat !  How 
easy  to  comprehend  that  he  was  young!'  She  sighed 
again,  this  time  more  softly.  '  Youth  was  a  marvellous 
thing — and  Paris  was  the  city  of  the  young !  Was  mon- 
sieur making  a  long  stay  at  the  Hotel  Railleux  ?' 

The  waiter  again  appeared  and  placed  the  coffee  upon 
the  table.  Monsieur,  suddenly  and  unaccountably  un- 
easy, finished  his  eggs  hastily  and  pushed  his  plate  aside. 

'  Did  monsieur  desire  coffee  ?'  Madame  leaned  for- 
ward. '  If  so,  it  would  be  but  the  matter  of  a  moment 
to  procure  a  second  cup;  and,  as  her  coffee-pot  was  quite 
full — '  She  raised  the  lid  coquettishly,  and  again  her 
eyes  lingered  upon  the  short  dark  hair  and  the  straight 
brows  above  the  gray  eyes. 

The  waiter  with  ready  tact  departed  in  search  of  the 
second  cup;  madame  replaced  the  lid  of  the  coffee-pot. 

'  Now  that  they  were  alone,  would  it  be  an  unpardon- 
able liberty  to  ask  how  old  monsieur  really  was  ?' 

Monsieur  blushed. 

'  How  old  would  madame  suppose  ?' 

Madame  laughed.  'Oh,  it  was  difficult  to  say!  One 
might  imagine  from  those  bright  eyes  that  monsieur  had 
nineteen  years;  but,  again,  it  was  impossible  to  suppose 

36 


MAX 

that  a  razor  had  ever  touched  that  soft  cheek.'  There 
was  another  little  laugh,  lower  this  time  and  more  subtle 
in  tone;  and  madame,  with  a  movement  wonderfully- 
swift  considering  her  years  and  her  proportions,  leaned 
across  the  table  and  touched  the  boy's  face. 

The  effect  was  instant.  A  tide  of  color  rushed  into 
his  cheeks,  he  rose  with  an  alacrity  that  was  comic. 

'  He — he  was  much  older  than  madame  supposed !' 

Madame  laughed  delightedly.  '  How  charming !  How 
ingenuous !  He  positively  must  sit  down  again.  It  was 
assured  that  they  would  become  friends!  Where  was 
that  waiter?     Where  was  that  second  coffee-cup?' 

But  monsieur  remained  standing. 

Madame's  eyes,  now  alive  with  interest,  literally 
danced  to  her  thoughts. 

'Come!  Come!  They  must  not  allow  the  coffee  to 
become  cold!' 

But  monsieur  picked  up  his  hat  and  coat. 

'What!  He  was  not  going?  Oh,  it  was  impossible! 
He  could  not  be  so  unkind !'     Her  face  expressed  dismay. 

But  her  only  answer  was  a  stiff  little  bow,  and  a  second 
later  the  door  had  closed  and  the  boy  was  running  down 
the  stairs  of  the  hotel  as  though  some  enemy  were  in  hot 
pursuit. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  mind  of  the  boy  was  very  full  as  he  passed  out 
of  the  hotel,  so  full  that  he  scarcely  noticed  the 
whip  of  cold  air  that  stung  his  face  or  the  white  mantle 
that  lay  upon  the  streets,  wrapping  in  a  silver  sheath 
all  that  was  sordid,  all  that  was  dirty  and  unpicturesque 
in  that  corner  of  Paris.  The  human  note  had  been 
touched  in  that  moment  in  the  salle-a-manger,  and  his 
ears  still  tingled  to  its  sound.  Alarm,  disgust,  and  a 
strange  exultant  satisfaction  warred  within  him  in  a 
manner  to  be  comprehended  by  his  own  soul  alone. 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  rue  de  Dunkerque  he 
scarcely  questioned  in  what  direction  his  feet  should 
carry  him.  North,  south,  east,  or  west  were  equal  on 
that  first  day.  Everywhere  was  promise — everywhere 
a  call.  Nonchalantly  and  without  intention  he  turned 
to  the  left  and  found  himself  once  more  in  face  of  the 
Gare  du  Nord. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  rejoice  in  spite  of  the  world ;  it  is 
an  infinitely  better  thing  to  rejoice  in  company  with  it. 
With  solitude  and  freedom,  the  alarm,  the  disgust  re- 
ceded, and  as  he  went  forward  the  exultation  grew,  until 
once  again  his  mercurial  spirits  lifted  him  as  upon  wings. 

The  majority  of  passers-by  at  this  morning  hour  were 
workers — work-girls  out  upon  their  errands,  business 
men  going  to  or  from  the  cafes;  but  here  and  there  was  to 
be  seen  an  artist,  consciously  indifferent  to  appearances ; 
here  and  there  an  artisan,  unconsciously  picturesque  in 
his  coarse  working-clothes ;  here  and  there  a  well-dressed 

3S 


MAX 

woman,  sunning  herself  in  the  cold,  bright  air  like  a  bird 
of  gay  plumage.  It  was  the  world  in  miniature,  and  it 
stirred  and  piqued  his  interest.  A  wish  to  stop  one  of 
these  people,  and  to  pour  forth  his  longings,  his  hopes, 
his  dreams,  surged  within  him  in  a  glow  of  fellowship 
and,  smiling  to  himself  at  the  pleasant  wildness  of  the 
thought,  he  made  his  way  through  the  wider  spaces  of 
the  Place  Lafayette  and  the  Square  Montholon  into  the 
long,  busy  rue  Lafayette. 

Here,  in  the  rue  Lafayette,  the  gloomy  aspects  of  the 
district  he  had  made  his  own  dropped  behind  him,  and  a 
wealth  of  bustle  and  gayety  greeted  and  fascinated  him. 
Here  the  sun  seemed  fuller,  the  traffic  was  more  dense, 
and  the  shops  offered  visions  to  please  every  sense. 
Wine  shops  were  here,  curio  shops,  shops  all  golden  and 
tempting  with  cheeses  and  butter,  and  hat  shops  that 
foretold  the  spring  in  a  glitter  of  blues  and  greens.  He 
passed  on,  jostling  the  crowd  good-humoredly,  being 
jostled  in  the  same  spirit,  hugging  his  freedom  with  a 
silent  joy. 

Down  the  rue  Halevy  he  went  and  on  into  the  Place  de 
l'Op^ra;  but  here  he  slackened  his  pace,  and  something 
of  his  insouciance  dropped  from  him.  The  wide  space 
filled  with  its  cosmopolitan  crowd,  the  opera-house  itself, 
so  aloof  in  its  dark  splendor,  spoke  to  him  of  another 
Paris — the  Paris  that  might  be  Vienna,  Petersburg,  Lon- 
don, for  all  it  has  to  say  of  individual  life.  His  mood 
changed;  he  paused  and  looked  back  over  his  shoulder 
in  the  direction  from  whence  he  had  come.  But  the 
hesitation  was  fleeting;  a  quick  courage  followed  on  the 
doubt.  The  adventurer  must  take  life  in  every  aspect — 
must  face  all  questions,  all  moments!  He  turned  up  the 
collar  of  his  coat,  as  though  preparing  to  face  a  chillier 
region,  and  went  forward  boldly  as  before. 

One  or  two  narrow  streets  brought  him  out  upon  the 

3^ 


MAX 

Place  de  Rivoli,  where  Joan  of  Arc  sat  astride  her  golden 
horse,  and  where  great  heaps  of  flowers  were  stacked  at 
the  street  corners — mimosa,  lilac,  violets.  He  halted 
irresistibly  to  glance  at  these  flowers  breathing  of  the 
south,  and  to  glance  at  the  shining  statue.  Then  he 
crossed  the  rue  de  Rivoli  and,  passing  through  the  gar- 
den of  the  Tuileries,  emerged  upon  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde. 

On  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  the  cool,  clean  hand  of 
the  morning  had  drawn  its  most  striking  picture ;  here, 
in  the  great,  unsheltered  spaces,  the  frost  had  fallen 
heavily,  softening  and  beautifying  to  an  inconceivable 
degree.  The  suggestion  of  modernity  that  ordinarily 
hangs  over  the  place  was  veiled,  and  the  subtle  hints  of 
history  stole  forth,  binding  the  imagination.  It  needed 
but  a  touch  to  materialize  the  dream  as  the  boy  crossed 
the  white  roadway,  shadowed  by  the  white  statuary,  and 
with  an  odd  appropriateness  the  touch  was  given. 

One  moment  his  mind  was  a  sea  of  shifting  visions, 
the  next  it  was  caught  and  held  by  an  inevitably  thrilling 
sound — the  sound  of  feet  tramping  to  a  martial  tune. 
The  touch  had  been  given :  the  vague  visions  of  tradition 
and  history  crystallized  into  a  picture,  and  his  heart 
leaped  to  the  pulsing,  steady  tramp,  to  the  clash  of  fife 
and  drum  ringing  out  upon  the  fine  cold  air. 

All  humanity  is  drawn  by  the  sight  of  soldiers.  There 
is  a  primitive  exhilaration  in  the  idea  of  marching  men 
that  will  last  while  the  nations  live.  Stung  by  the  same 
impulse  that  affected  every  man  and  woman  in  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  the  boy  paused— his  head  up,  his  pulses 
quickened,  his  eyes  and  ears  strained  toward  the  sound. 

It  was  a  regiment  of  infantry  marching  down  the 
Cours  la  Reine  and  defiling  out  upon  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  toward  the  rue  de  Rivoli.  By  a  common  im- 
pulse he  paused,  and  by  an  equally  common  desire  to  be 

40 


MAX 

close  to  the  object  of  interest,  he  ran  forward  to  where 
a  little  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  soldiers'  route. 

The  French  soldier  is  not  individually  interesting,  and 
this  body  of  men  looked  insignificant  enough  upon  close 
inspection.  Yet  it  was  a  regiment ;  it  stirred  the  fancy ; 
and  the  boy  gazed  with  keen  interest  at  the  small  figures 
in  the  ill-fitting  uniforms  and  at  the  faces,  many  as  young 
as  his  own,  that  defiled  past  him  in  confusing  numbers. 
On  and  on  the  regiment  wound,  a  coiling  line  of  dull  red 
and  bluish-gray  against  the  frosty  background,  the  feet 
tramping  steadily,  the  fifes  and  drums  beating  out  with 
an  incessant  clamor. 

Then,  without  warning,  a  new  interest  touched  the 
knot  of  watchers,  a  thrill  passed  from  one  member  of 
the  crowd  to  another,  and  hats  were  raised.  The  colors 
were  being  borne  by :  Frenchmen  were  saluting  their  flag. 

The  knowledge  sprang  to  the  boy's  mind  with  the 
swiftness  and  poignancy  of  an  inspiration.  This  body 
of  men  might  be  insignificant,  but  it  represented  the 
army  of  France — a  thing  of  infinite  tradition,  of  infinite 
romance.  The  blood  mounted  to  his  face,  his  heart  beat 
faster,  and  with  a  strange,  half-shy  sense  of  participating 
in  some  fine  moment,  his  hand  went  up  to  his  hat. 

Unconsciously  he  made  a  picture  as  he  stood  there, 
his  dark  hair  stirred  by  the  light,  early  air,  his  young 
face  beautiful  in  its  sudden  enthusiasm;  and  to  one  pair 
of  eyes  in  the  little  crowd  it  seemed  better  worth  watch- 
ing than  the  passing  soldiers. 

The  owner  of  these  eyes  had  been  observant  of  him 
from  the  moment  that  he  had  run  forward,  drawn  by 
the  rattle  of  the  drums;  and  now,  as  if  in  acceptance  of 
an  anticipated  opportunity,  he  forced  a  way  through  the 
knot  of  people  and,  pausing  behind  the  boy,  addressed 
him  in  an  easy,  familiar  voice,  as  one  friend  might  ad- 
dress another. 

4i 


MAX 

"  Isn't  it  odd,"  he  said,  "  to  look  at  those  insignificant 
creatures,  and  to  think  that  the  soldiers  of  France  have 
kissed  the  women  and  thrashed  the  men  the  world 
over?" 

Had  a  gun  been  discharged  close  to  his  ear  the  boy 
could  not  have  started  more  violently.  Fear  leaped 
into  his  eyes,  he  wheeled  round;  then  a  sharp,  nervous 
laugh  of  relief  escaped  him. 

"How  you  frightened  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh,  how 
you  frightened  me!"     Then  he  laughed  again. 

His  travelling  companion  of  the  night  before  smiled 
down  on  him  from  his  superior  height,  and  the  boy  noted 
for  the  first  time  that  this  smile  had  a  peculiarly  attrac- 
tive way  of  communicating  itself  from  the  clean-shaven 
lips  to  the  grayish-green  eyes  of  the  stranger,  banishing 
the  slightly  satirical  look  that  marked  his  face  in  repose. 

"Well?"  The  Irishman  was  still  studying  him. 
"Well?  We're  all  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  you  see! 
'Twas  written  that  we  were  to  meet;  you  can't  avoid 
me." 

The  flag  had  been  carried  past;  the  boy  replaced  his 
hat,  glad  of  a  moment  in  which  tc  collect  his  thoughts. 
What  must  he  do?  The  question  beat  in  his  brain. 
Wisdom  whispered  avoidance  of  this  stranger.  To-day 
was  the  first  day;  was  it  wise  to  bring  into  it  anything 
from  yesterday?  No,  it  was  not  wise — reason  upheld 
wisdom.  He  pulled  his  hat  into  place,  his  lips  came 
together  in  an  obstinate  line,  and  he  raised  his  eyes. 

The  sun  was  dancing  on  a  silvery  world,  from  the  rue 
de  Rivoli  the  fifes  and  drums  still  rattled  out  their 
march,  close  beside  him  the  Irishman  was  looking  at 
him  with  his  pleasant  smile. 

Suddenly,  as  a  daring  horseman  might  give  rein  to  a 
young  horse,  rejoicing  in  the  risk,  the  boy  discarded  wis- 
dom and  its  whispering  curb ;  his  nature  leaped  forth  in 

43 


MAX 

sudden  comradeship,  and  impulsively  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Monsieur,  forgive  me!"  he  said.  "The  gods  know- 
best !" 

He  said  the  words  in  English,  perfectly,  easily,  with 
that  faintest  of  all  foreign  intonations — the  intonation 
that  clings  to  the  Russian  voice. 


CHAPTER  V 

SO  the  step  was  taken,  and  two  souls,  drawn  together 
from  different  countries,  different  races,  touched  in 
a  first  subtle  fusion.  With  an  ease  kindled  by  the  fine 
and  stinging  air,  stimulated  by  the  crisp  summons  of  the 
flutes  and  the  martial  rattle  of  the  drums,  they  bridged 
the  thousand  preliminaries  that  usually  hedge  a  friend- 
ship, and  arrived  in  a  moment  of  intuition  at  that  con- 
sciousness of  fellowship  that  is  the  most  divine  of  human 
gifts. 

As  though  the  affair  had  been  prearranged  through 
countless  ages,  they  turned  by  one  accord  and  forced  a 
way  through  the  crowd  that  still  encompassed  them. 
Across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  they  went,  past  the 
white  statues,  past  the  open  space  through  which  the 
soldiers  were  still  defiling  like  a  dark  stream  in  a  snow- 
bound country.  Each  was  drawn  instinctively  toward 
the  Cours  la  Reine — the  point  from  whence  the  stream 
was  pouring,  the  point  where  the  crowd  of  loiterers  was 
sparsest,  where  the  bare  and  frosted  trees  caught  the  sun 
in  a  million  dancing  facets.  Reaching  it,  the  boy  looked 
up  into  the  stranger's  face  with  his  fascinating  look  of 
question  and  interest. 

"Monsieur,  tell  me  something!  How  did  you  know 
me  again  ?     And  why  did  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

The  question  was  grave,  with  the  charming  gravity 
that  was  wont  to  cross  his  gayety  as  shadows  chase  each 
other  across  a  sunlit  pool.  His  lips  were  parted  naively, 
his  curious  slate-gray  eyes  demanded  the  truth. 

44 


TWO    SOULS,   DRAWN    TOGETHER,  TOUCHED    IN    A  FIRST   SUBTLE   FUSION 


MAX 

The  Irishman  recognized  the  demand,  and  answered  it. 

"Now  that  you  put  it  to  me,"  he  said,  thoughtfully, 
"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  tell  you.  There's  something 
about  you — "  His  though tfulness  deepened,  and  he 
studied  the  boy  through  narrowed  eyes.  "  It  isn't  that 
you're  odd  in  any  way." 

The  boy  reddened. 

"  It  isn't  that  you're  odd,"  he  insisted,  "but  somehow 
you're  such  a  slip  of  a  boy — "  His  voice  grew  medita- 
tive and  he  recurred  to  his  native  trick  of  phrasing,  as  he 
always  did  when  interested  or  moved. 

"  But  why  did  you  speak  to  me  ?     I'm  not  interesting." 

"Oh  yes,  you  are!" 

"How  am  I  interesting?"  There  was  a  flash  in  the 
gray  eyes  that  revealed  new  flecks  of  gold. 

The  Irishman  hesitated. 

"Well,  I  can't  explain  it,"  he  said,  slowly,  "unless  I 
tell  you  that  you  throw  a  sort  of  spell — and  that  sounds 
absurd.  You  see,  I've  knocked  about  the  world  a  bit, 
east  and  west,  but  at  the  back  of  everything  I'm  an 
Irishman;  I  have  a  fondness  for  the  curious  and  the 
poetical  and  the  mysterious,  and  somehow  you  seemed 
to  me  last  night  to  be  mystery  itself,  with  your  silence 
and  your  intentness."  He  dropped  his  voice  to  the 
meditative  key,  unconsciously  enjoying  its  soft,  half- 
melancholy  cadences,  and  as  he  spoke  the  boy  felt  some 
chord  in  his  own  personality  vibrate  to  the  mind  that 
had  asked  for  no  introduction,  demanded  no  credentials, 
that  had  decreed  their  friendship  and  materialized  it. 
'No,"  the  Irishman  mused  on,  "there's  no  explaining 
it.  You  were  mystery  itself,  and  you  fired  my  imagina- 
tion, because  I  happen  to  come  from  a  country  of  dreams. 
We  Irish  are  born  dreamers;  sometimes  we  never  wake 
up  at  all,  and  then  we're  counted  failures.  But,  I  tell 
you  what,  when  all's  said  and  done,  we  see  what  other 
4  45 


MAX 

men  don't  see.  For  instance,  what  do  you  think  my 
two  friends  saw  in  you  last  night?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head,  and  there  was  a  tremor  of 
nervousness  about  his  mouth. 

"They  saw  something  dangerous — something  to  be 
avoided.  Yet  Mac  is  a  millionaire  several  times  over, 
and  Billy  is  distinctly  a  diplomatist  with  a  future." 

The  boy  forced  a  smile;  he  was  beginning  to  shrink 
from  the  pleasant  scrutiny,  to  wish  that  the  vaporous 
fog  of  last  night  might  dim  the  searching  light  of  the 
morning. 

"What  did  they  see?"  he  asked. 

The  Irishman  looked  at  him  humorously.  "  I  hardly 
like  to  tell  it  to  you,"  he  said,  "but  they  marked  you 
for  an  anarchist.  An  anarchist,  for  all  the  world!  As 
if  any  anarchist  alive  would  travel  first-class  in  third- 
class  clothes!     You  see,  I'm  blunt." 

The  boy,  studying  him,  half  in  fear,  half  in  doubt, 
laughed  suddenly  in  quick  relief  and  amusement. 

"  An  anarchist !     How  droll !' ' 

"  Wasn't  it  ?     I  told  them  so.     I  also  told  them—" 

"What?" 

"My  own  beliefs." 

"  And  your  beliefs  ?" 

"No!  No!  You  won't  draw  me!  But  I'll  tell  you 
this  much,  for  I've  told  it  before.  I  knew  you  were  no 
common  creature  of  intrigue;  I  accepted  you  as  mystery 
personified." 

"And  now  you  would  solve  me?"  In  his  returning 
confidence  the  boy's  eyes  danced. 

"  God  forbid !"  The  vehemence  of  the  reply  was  comic, 
and  the  Irishman  himself  laughed  as  the  words  escaped 
him.  "  Oh  no !"  he  added,  soberly.  "  Keep  your  mask ! 
I  don't  want  to  tear  it  from  you.  Later  on,  perhaps, 
I'll  take  a  peep  behind;    but  I  can  accept  mysteries 

46 


MAX 

and  miracles  —  I  was  born  into  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church." 

"And  I  into  the  Greek." 

"Ah!     My  first  peep!" 

"And  what  do  you  see?" 

"  Do  you  know,  I  see  a  queer  thing.  I  see  a  boy  who 
has  thought.     You  have  thought.     Don't  deny  it!" 

"  On  religion  ?" 

"On  religion — and  other  things;  you  acknowledge  it 
in  one  look." 

The  boy  laughed,  like  a  child  who  has  been  caught  at 
some  forbidden  game. 

"Perhaps  it  was  your  imagination." 

"Perhaps!  But,  look  here,  we  can't  stand  all  day 
discoursing  in  the  Cours  la  Reine !  Where  shall  we  wan- 
der— left  or  right  ?"  He  nodded  first  in  the  direction  of 
the  river,  then  toward  the  large  building  that  faced  them 
on  the  right,  from  the  roof  of  which  an  array  of  small 
flags  fluttered  an  invitation. 

The  boy's  eyes  followed  his  movement.  "Pictures!" 
he  exclaimed.  "  I  didn't  know  there  was  an  exhibition 
open." 

"  Live  and  learn !     Come  along !" 

Together  they  stepped  into  the  roadway,  where  the 
frosty  surface  was  scarred  by  the  soldiers'  feet,  and  to- 
gether they  reached  the  doorway  of  the  large  building  and 
read  the  legend,  "  Societe  Peintres  et  Sculpteurs  Franfais." 

The  Irishman  read  the  words  with  the  faintly  humor- 
ous, faintly  sceptical  glance  that  he  seemed  to  bestow 
upon  the  world  at  large. 

"  Remember  I'm  throwing  out  no  bait,  but  I  expect 
'twill  be  value  for  a  couple  of  francs." 

They  entered  the  bare  hall  and,  mounting  a  cold  and 
rigid  staircase,  found  themselves  confronted  by  a  turn- 
stile. 

47 


MAX 

The  Irishman  was  in  the  act  of  laying  a  two-franc  piece 
in  the  hand  of  the  custodian  when  the  boy  plucked  him 
by  the  sleeve  and,  turning,  he  saw  the  curious  eyes  full  of 
a  sudden  anxiety. 

"Monsieur,  pardon  me!     You  know  Paris  well?" 

"  I  live  here  for  five  months  out  of  the  twelve." 

"Then  you  can  tell  me  if — if  this  exhibition  will  be 
well  attended.  I  want  with  all  my  heart  to  see  the  pict- 
ures, but  I  —  I  dislike  crowds- — -fashionable  crowds." 
His  voice  was  agitated;  it  was  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
awakened  from  his  pleasant  dream  of  Bohemian  com- 
radeship to  a  remembrance  of  the  Paris  that  lay  about 
him. 

The  Irishman  expressed  no  surprise:  his  only  reply 
was  to  move  nearer  to  the  guardian  of  the  turnstile. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  in  French,  "  have  the  goodness  to 
inform  me  how  many  persons  have  passed  through  the 
turnstile  this  morning?" 

The  man  looked  at  him  without  interest,  though  with 
some  surprise.  '  Not  many  of  the  world  were  to  be  seen 
at  such  an  hour,'  he  informed  him.  '  So  far,  he  had  ad- 
mitted two  gentlemen — artists,  and  three  ladies — 
American.' 

The  Irishman  waved  his  hand  toward  the  turnstile. 

"In  with  you!  The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world 
forgot!" 

His  ease  of  manner  was  contagious.  Whatever  mis- 
givings had  assailed  the  boy  were  banished  with  this  re- 
assurance, and  his  confidence  flowed  back  as  the  custo- 
dian took  the  two-franc  piece  and  the  turnstile  clicked 
twice,  making  them  free  of  the  long,  bare  galleries  that 
opened  in  front  of  them. 

Inured  as  he  was  to  cold,  he  shivered  as  they  passed 
into  the  first  of  these  long  rooms,  and  involuntarily  buried 
his  chin  in  the  collar  of  his  coat.     The  chill  of  the  place 

48 


MAX 

was  vaultlike;  the  cold,  gray  light  that  penetrated  it 
held  nothing  of  the  sun's  comfort,  while  the  small,  black 
stove  set  in  the  middle  of  the  room  was  a  mere  travesty 
of  warmth. 

"  God  bless  my  soul!"  began  the  Irishman,  "  this  is  art 
for  art's  sake — " 

But  there  he  stopped,  for  his  companion,  with  the 
impetuosity  of  his  temperament,  had  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  a  picture  that  interested  him,  and  had  dart- 
ed across  the  room,  leaving  him  to  his  own  reflec- 
tions. 

The  boy  was  standing  perfectly  still,  entirely  engrossed, 
when  he  came  silently  up  behind  him,  and  paused  to  look 
over  his  shoulder.  They  were  alone  in  the  vast  and 
chilly  room  save  for  one  attendant  who  dozed  over  some 
knitting  in  a  corner  near  the  door.  Away  into  the  dis- 
tance stretched  the  other  rooms,  bound  one  to  the  other 
like  links  in  a  chain.  From  the  third  of  these  came  the 
penetrating  voices  of  the  American  ladies,  descanting  un- 
hesitatingly upon  the  pictures;  while  in  the  second  the 
two  artists  could  be  seen  flitting  from  one  canvas  to 
another  with  a  restless,  nervous  activity. 

These  facts  came  subconsciously  to  the  Irishman,  for 
his  eyes  and  his  thoughts  were  for  the  boy  and  the  sub- 
ject of  the  boy's  interest — a  picture  curiously  repulsive, 
yet  curiously  binding  in  its  realism  of  conception.  It 
was  a  large  canvas  that  formed  one  of  a  group  of  five  or 
six  studies  by  a  particular  artist.  The  details  of  the 
picture  scarcely  held  the  mind,  for  the  imagination  of 
the  beholder  was  instantly  caught  and  enchained  by  the 
central  figure — the  figure  of  a  great  ape,  painted  with 
cruel  and  extraordinary  truth.  The  animal  was  squat- 
ting upon  the  ground,  devouring  a  luscious  fruit;  its 
small  and  greedy  eyes  were  alight  with  gluttony;  in  its 
unbridled  appetite,  its  hairy  fingers  crushed  the  fruit 

49 


MAX 

against  its  sharp  teeth,  while  the  juice  dripped  from  its 
mouth. 

The  intimate,  undisguised  portrayal  of  greed  shocked 
the  susceptibilities,  but  it  was  the  hideous  human  attri- 
butes patent  in  the  brute  that  disgusted  the  imagination. 
With  a  terrible  cunning  of  mind  and  brush  the  artist 
had  laid  bare  a  vice  that  civilization  cloaks. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  the  boy  stood  immovable, 
then  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  the  man  be- 
hind him  was  surprised  at  the  expression  that  had  over- 
spread his  face,  the  sombre  light  that  glowed  in  his  eyes. 
In  a  moment  the  adventurer  was  lost,  another  being  had 
come  uppermost — a  strange,  unexpected  being. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  picture?" 

The  Irishman  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  then 
his  eyes  returned  to  the  canvas  and  his  tongue  was 
loosed. 

"  If  you  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "  I  think  it's  the 
most  damnable  thing  I've  ever  seen.  When  the  Gallic 
mind  runs  to  morbidity  there's  nothing  to  touch  it  for 
filth." 

"Why  filth?" 

"Why  filth?  My  dear  boy,  look  at  this— and  this!" 
He  pointed  to  the  other  pictures,  each  a  study  of  monkey 
life,  each  a  travesty  of  some  human  passion. 

The  boy  obeyed,  conscientiously  and  slowly,  then  once 
more  his  eyes  challenged  his  companion's. 

"  I  say  again,  why  filth?" 

"  Because  there  is  enough  of  the  beast  in  every  man 
without  advertising  it." 

"  You  admit  that  there  is  something  of  the  beast  in 
every  man?" 

"Naturally." 

"Then  why  fear  to  see  it?"  The  boy's  face  was  pale, 
his  eyes  still  challenged. 

5o 


MAX 

The  other  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  •  "  It 
isn't  a  question  of  fear;  it  is  a  question  of — well,  of 
taste." 

" Taste!"     The  boy  tossed  the  word  to  scorn. 

"What  would  you  substitute?" 

"Truth."  There  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  a  veil 
seemed  to  fall  upon  his  youth,  arresting  its  carelessness, 
sobering  its  vitality. 

The  Irishman  raised  his  brows.     "Truth,  eh?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  only  possible  to  live  when  we  know  life 
truly,  see  it  and  value  it  truly." 

"There  may  be  perverted  truth." 

"You  say  that  because  this  truth  we  speak  of  dis- 
pleases you ;  yet  this  is  no  more  a  perversion  of  the  truth 
than" — he  glanced  round  the  walls — "  than  that,  for  ex- 
ample; yet  you  would  approve  of  that." 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  another  painting,  a  delicate 
and  charming  conception  of  a  half-clothed  woman,  a 
picture  in  which  the  flesh-tints,  the  drapery,  the  lights 
all  harmonized  with  exquisite  art. 

'  You  would  approve  of  that  because  it  pleases  your 
eye  and  soothes  your  senses,  yet  you  know  that  all 
womankind  is  not  slim  and  graciou  — that  all  life  is  not 
lived  in  boudoirs." 

"  Neither  is  man  all  beast." 

"Ah,  that  is  it!  If  we  are  to  be  students  of  human 
nature  we  must  not  be  swayed  in  one  direction  or  the 
other;  and  that  is  the  difficulty — to  be  dispassionate. 
Sometimes  it  is — very  difficult!" 

It  came  with  a  charm  indescribable,  this  sudden  ad- 
mission of  weakness,  accompanied  by  a  deprecating, 
pleading  glance,  and  the  Irishman  was  filled  with  a  sud- 
den sense  of  having  recovered  something  personal  and 
precious. 

"  What  are  you  ?"  he  cried.     "  It's  my  turn  to  seek  the 

Si 


MAX 

truth  now.  What  are  you,  you  incomprehensible 
being?" 

The  boy  laughed,  the  old  careless,  light-hearted  laugh 
of  the  creature  infinitely  free. 

"Do  not  ask!  Do  not  ask!"  he  said.  "A  riddle  is 
only  interesting  while  it  is  unsolved." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WITH  the  laugh  the  personal  moment  passed. 
Henceforward  it  was  the  technique  of  the  pict- 
ures, the  individualism  of  the  artists  that  claimed  the 
boy's  attention,  and  in  this  new  field  he  proved  himself 
yet  another  being — a  creature  of  quick  perception  and 
curiously  mature  judgment,  appreciative  and  observant, 
critical  and  generous. 

In  warm  and  interested  discussion  they  made  the  tour 
of  the  rooms,  and  when  they  emerged  again  into  the 
frosty  morning  air  and  were  greeted  by  the  dazzle  of 
the  sun,  each  was  conscious  of  a  deeper  understanding. 
A  new  expression  of  interest  and  something  of  respect 
was  visible  in  the  Irishman's  face  as  he  looked  down  on 
the  puzzling,  elusive  being  whom  he  had  picked  up  from 
the  skirts  of  chance  as  he  might  have  niched  a  jewel  or 
a  coin. 

"  Look  here,  boy!"  he  said,  "  we  mustn't  say  good-bye 
just  yet.  Come  across  the  river,  and  let's  find  some  little 
place  where  we  can  get  a  seat  and  a  cup  of  coffee." 

The  boy's  only  answer  was  to  turn  obediently,  as  the 
other  slipped  his  hand  through  his  arm,  and  to  allow 
himself  to  be  guided  back  across  the  Cours  la  Reine  and 
over  the  Pont  Alexandre  III. 

The  bridge  looked  almost  as  impressive  as  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  under  its  white  garment,  and  his  glance 
ranged  from  the  high  columns,  topped  by  the  winged 
horses,  to  the  thronging  bronze  lamps,  while  the  sense  of 
breath  and  freedom  fitted  with  his  secret  thoughts. 

53 


MAX 

.Leaving  the  river  behind  them,  they  made  their  way 
onward  across  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides,  through  the 
serried  lines  of  trees,  stark  and  formal  against  the  Janu- 
ary sky,  to  the  rue  Fabert.  Here,  in  the  rue  Fabert,  lay 
that  note  of  contrast  that  is  bound  into  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  Paris — the  note  that  touches  the  imagination 
to  so  acute  an  interest.  Here  shabby,  broken-down 
shops  rubbed  shoulders  with  fine  old  entries,  entries  that 
savored  of  other  times  in  the  hint  of  roomy  court-yard 
and  green  garden  to  be  caught  behind  their  gateways; 
here  were  creameries  that  conjured  the  country  to  the 
eager  senses,  and  laundries  that  exhaled  a  very  aroma 
of  work  in  the  hot  steam  that  poured  through  their  win- 
dows and  in  the  babble  of  voices  that  arose  from  the 
women  who  stood  side  by  side,  iron  in  hand,  bending  over 
the  long,  spotless  tables  piled  with  linen. 

It  was  a  touch  of  Parisian  life,  small  in  itself,  but  subtle 
and  suggestive  as  the  premonition  of  spring  awakened 
by  the  twittering  of  the  sparrows  in  the  tall,  leafless  trees, 
and  the  throbbing  song  of  a  caged  canary  that  floated 
down  from  a  window  above  a  shop.  It  was  suggestive 
of  that  Parisian  life  that  is  as  restless  as  the  sea,  as  un- 
controllable, as  possessed  of  hidden  currents. 

Involuntarily  the  boy  paused  and  glanced  up  at  the 
bird  in  its  cage — the  bird  that,  regardless  of  the  garden 
of  greenstuff s  pushed  through  its  bars,  was  pouring  forth 
its  heart  to  the  pale  sun  in  a  frenzy  of  worship 

"How  strange  that  is!"  he  said.  "  If  I  were  a  bird 
and  saw  the  great  sky,  knowing  myself  imprisoned,  I 
should  beat  my  life  out  against  my  cage." 

The  Irishman  looked  down  upon  him.  "I  wonder!" 
he  said,  slowly. 

The  quick,  gray  eyes  flashed  up  to  his.  "  You  doubt 
it?" 

"I  don't  know!     'On  my  soul,  I  don't  know!" 

54 


MAX 

"Would  you  not  beat  your  life  out  against  a  cage?" 

"  I  wonder  that  too !     I'd  like  to  think  I  would,  but — " 

"  You  imagine  you  would  hesitate  ?  You  think  you 
would  shrink?" 

"I  don't  know!  Human  nature  is  so  damnably  pa- 
tient. Come  along!  here's  the  place  we're  looking  for." 
He  drew  the  boy  across  the  road  to  the  doorway  of  a 
little  cafe,  over  the  door  of  which  hung  the  somewhat 
pretentious  sign  Maison  Gustav. 

The  Maison  Gustav  was  scarcely  a  more  appetizing 
place  than  the  Hotel  Railleux.  One-half  of  its  interior 
was  partitioned  off  and  filled  with  long  tables,  at  which, 
earlier  in  the  day,  workmen  were  served  with  dejeuner, 
while  the  other  and  smaller  portion,  reserved  for  more 
fastidious  guests,  was  fitted  with  a  counter,  ranged  with 
fruit  and  cakes,  and  with  half  a  dozen  round  marble- 
topped  tables,  provided  with  chairs. 

This  more  refined  portion  of  the  cafe  was  empty  of 
customers  as  the  two  entered.  With  the  ease  and  de- 
cision of  an  habitue,  the  Irishman  chose  the  table  nearest 
to  the  counter,  and  presently  a  woman  appeared  from 
some  inner  region,  and,  approaching  her  customers,  eyed 
them  with  that  mixture  of  shrewd  observation  and  polite 
welcome  that  belongs  to  the  Frenchwoman  who  follows 
the  ways  of  commerce. 

"  Good-day,  messieurs!"  She  inclined  her  head  to  one 
side  like  a  plump  and  speculative  bird,  and  her  hands 
began  mechanically  to  smooth  her  black  alpaca  apron. 

"Good-day,  madame!"  The  Irishman  rose  and  took 
off  his  hat  with  a  flourish  that  was  essentially  flattering. 

The  bright  little  eyes  of  the  Parisienne  sparkled,  and 
her  round  face  relaxed  into  the  inevitable  smile. 

'What  could  she  have  the  pleasure  of  offering  mon- 
sieur? It  was  late,  but  she  had  an  excellent  ragoM,  now 
a  little  cold,  perhaps,  but  capable  in  an  instant — ' 

55 


MAX 

The  stranger  put  up  his  hand.  "  Madame,  we  could 
not  think  of  giving  you  the  trouble — " 

"Monsieur,  a  pleasure — " 

"  No,  madame,  it  is  past  the  hour  of  dejeuner.  All  we 
need  is  your  charming  hospitality  and  two  cups  of 
coffee." 

'  Coffee !  But  certainly !  While  monsieur  was  saying 
the  word  it  would  be  made  and  served.' 

Madame  hurried  off,  and  in  silence  the  Irishman  took 
out  his  cigarette-case  and  offered  it  to  the  boy.  Bare 
and  even  cold  as  the  cafe  was,  there  was  a  certain  sense 
of  shelter  in  the  closed  glass  door,  in  the  blue  film  of  ciga- 
rette smoke  that  presently  began  to  mount  upward  tow- 
ard the  ceiling,  and  in  the  pleasant  smell  of  coffee  borne  to 
them  from  unseen  regions  mingling  with  the  shrill,  cheer- 
ful tones  of  their  hostess's  voice. 

"A  wonderful  place,  Paris,  when  all's  said  and  done!" 
murmured  the  Irishman,  drawing  in  a  long,  luxurious 
breath  of  smoke.  "  How  an  English  restaurant-keeper 
would  stare  you  out  of  countenance  if  you  demanded  a 
modest  cup  of  coffee  when  he  had  luncheon  for  you  to 
eat!  But  here,  bless  you,  they  acknowledge  the  rights 
of  man.  If  you  want  coffee,  coffee  you  must  have — and 
that  with  the  best  grace  in  the  world,  lest  your  self- 
esteem  be  hurt!  They're  like  my  people  at  home:  con- 
sideration for  the  individual  is  the  first  thing.  It  means 
nothing,  a  Saxon  will  tell  you,  and  probably  he's  quite 
right;  but  I'd  sooner  have  a  pleasant-spoken  sinner  any 
day  than  a  disagreeable  saint.  Ah,  here  comes  madame !" 
The  last  words  he  added  in  French,  and  the  boy  watched 
him  in  amused  wonder  as  he  jumped  to  his  feet  and, 
meeting  their  hostess  at  the  kitchen  door,  insisted  upon 
taking  the  tray  from  her  hands. 

Laughing,  excited,  and  flattered,  the  little  woman  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  table. 

56 


MAX 

'It  was  really  too  much!     Monsieur  was  too  kind!' 

'On  the  contrary!  It  was  not  meant  that  woman 
should  wait  upon  man!  Madame  had  accomplished  her 
share  in  making  this  most  excellent  coffee!' 

He  sniffed  at  the  steaming  pot  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
noisseur. 

Madame  laughed  again,  this  time  self-consciously. 
'  Well,  her  coffee  had  been  spoken  of  before  now!  Mon- 
sieur, her  husband,  who  was  quite  a  gourmet — ' 

'  Always  declared  there  was  no  such  coffee  in  all  Paris! 
Was  not  that  so  ?' 

Madame 's  laugh  was  now  a  gurgle  of  delight.  '  How 
clever  of  monsieur!     Yes,  it  was  what  he  said.' 

'Of  course  it  was!  And  now,  how  was  this  good  hus- 
band ?  And  how  was  life  treating  them  both  ?'  He  put 
the  questions  with  deep  solicitude  as  he  poured  out  the 
coffee,  and  madame,  standing  by  the  table  and  smooth- 
ing her  apron,  grew  serious,  and  before  she  was  aware 
was  pouring  forth  the  grievance  that  at  the  moment  was 
darkening  her  existence — the  disappointment  that  had 
befallen  the  Maison  Gustav  when  her  father-in-law,  a 
market  gardener  near  Issy,  who  had  a  nice  little  sum  of 
money  laid  by,  had  married  again  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
four. 

'  Could  monsieur  conceive  anything  more  grotesque  ? 
An  old  man  of  sixty-four  marrying  a  young  woman  of 
twenty!  Of  course  there  would  be  a  child!'  Her 
shoulders  went  up,  her  hands  went  out  in  expressive 
gesture.  '  And  her  little  Leon  would  be  cheated  of  his 
grandfather's  money  by  this  creature  who — ' 

At  this  juncture  the  sound  of  a  kettle  boiling  over 
brought  the  story  to  an  abrupt  end,  and  madame  flew 
off,  leaving  her  guests  to  a  not  unwelcome  solitude. 

As  her  black  skirt  whisked  round  the  corner  of  the 
door  the  boy  looked  at  his  companion. 

57 


MAX 

"  You  come  here  often,"  he  said. 

The  other  laughed.  "  I've  never  set  foot  in  the  place 
before.  It's  a  way  we  Irish  have  of  putting  our 
fingers  into  other  people's  pies !  Some  call  it  intru- 
sion"—  he  glanced  quizzically  at  the  boy — "but  these 
good  creatures  understand  it.  They're  more  human 
than  the  Saxon  or  the — "  Again  a  glint  of  humor 
crossed  his  face,  as  he  paused  on  his  unfinished  sen- 
tence. 

The  boy  reddened  and  impulsively  leaned  across  the 
table. 

"  You  have  taught  me  something,  monsieur,"  he  said, 
shyly,  "  and  I  have  much  to  learn." 

The  other  returned  the  glance  seriously,  intently. 
"What  is  it  I  have  taught  you?" 

"  That  in  the  smaller  ways  of  life  it  is  not  possible  to 
stand  quite  alone." 

The  Irishman  laid  down  his  cigarette.  With  na- 
tive quickness  of  comprehension,  the  spirit  of  banter 
dropped  from  him,  his  mood  merged  into  the  boy's 
mood. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  we  are  not  meant  to  stand  quite  alone, 
and  when  two  of  us  are  flung  up  against  each  other  as 
we  have  been  flung,  by  a  wave  of  circumstance,  you  may 
take  it  that  the  gods  control  the  currents.  In  our  case  I 
would  say,  '  Let's  bow  to  the  inevitable !  Let's  be 
friends!'"  He  put  out  his  hand  and  took  the  boy's 
strong,  slim  fingers  in  his  grasp. 

"  I  don't  want  your  secret,"  he  added,  with  a  quick- 
ening interest,  "  but  I  want  to  know  one  thing.  Tell  me 
what  you  are  seeking  here  in  Paris?  Is  it  pleasure,  or 
money,  or  what?" 

He  watched  the  boy's  mobile  face  as  he  put  his  ques- 
tion: he  saw  it  swept  by  emotion,  transfigured  as  if 
by  some  inner  light;   then  the  hand  in  his  trembled 

5* 


MAX 

a  little,  and  the  gray  eyes  with  their  flecks  of  gold 
were  lifted  to  his  own,  giving  insight  into  the  hidden 
soul. 

"  I  want  more  than  pleasure,  monsieur — more  than 
money,"  he  said.     "I  want  first  life — and  then  fame." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  trembled  and  hung  upon  the  air — that  brief  word 
"fame" — as  it  has  so  often  hung  and  trembled  in 
the  streets  and  in  the  cafes  of  Paris,  winged  with  the 
exuberance  of  youth,  the  faith  in  his  mystic  star  that 
abides  in  the  heart  of  the  artist.  In  that  moment  of 
confession  the  individuality  of  the  boy  was  submerged 
in  his  ambition;  he  belonged  to  no  country,  to  no  sex. 
He  was  inspiration  made  manifest — the  flame  fanned 
into  being  by  the  winds  of  the  universe,  blown  as  those 
winds  listed. 

The  Irishman  looked  into  his  burning  face,  and  a 
curious  unnamable  feeling  thrilled  him — a  sense  of  en- 
thusiasm, of  profound  sadness,  of  poignant  envy. 

"You're  not  only  seeking  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  but  the  cruellest.  Failure  may 
be  cruel,  but  success  is  crueller  still.  The  gods  are 
usurers,  you  know;  they  lend  to  mortals,  but  they  exact 
a  desperate  interest." 

The  boy's  hand,  still  lying  unconsciously  in  his, 
trembled  again. 

"  I  know  that;  but  it  does  not  frighten  me." 

"A  challenge?  Take  care!  The  gods  are  always 
listening." 

"  I  know  that.     I  am  not  afraid." 

"  So  be  it,  then !  I'll  watch  the  duel.  But  what  road 
do  you  follow — music  ?  literature  ?  Art  of  some  sort,  of 
course;  you  are  artist  all  over." 

60 


MAX 

Again  the  fire  leaped  to  the  boy's  eyes.  He  snatched 
his  hand  away  in  quick  excitement. 

"  Look!     I  will  show  you!" 

With  the  swiftness  of  lightning  he  whipped  a  pencil 
from  his  pocket,  pushed  aside  his  coffee-cup,  and  began 
to  draw  upon  the  marble-topped  table  as  though  his  life 
depended  upon  his  speed. 

For  ten  minutes  he  worked  feverishly,  his  face  in- 
tensely earnest,  his  head  bent  over  his  task,  a  lock  of 
dark  hair  drooping  across  his  forehead;  then  he  looked 
up,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  gazing  up  at 
his  companion  with  the  egotistical  triumph — the  intense, 
childish  satisfaction  of  the  artist  in  the  first  flush  of  ac- 
complished work. 

"Look!     Look,  now,  at  this!" 

The  Irishman  laughed  sympathetically;  the  artist,  as 
belonging  to  a  race  apart,  was  known  by  him  and  liked, 
but  he  rose  and  came  round  the  table  with  a  certain 
scepticism.  Life  had  taught  him  that  temperament  and 
output  are  different  things. 

He  leaned  over  the  boy's  chair;  then  suddenly  he  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  gripped  it,  his  own  face 
lighting  up. 

"Why,  boy!"  he  cried.  "This  is  clever — clever — 
clever!  I'm  a  Dutchman,  if  this  isn't  the  real  thing! 
Why  on  earth  didn't  you  tell  me  you  could  do  it?" 

The  boy  laughed  in  sheer  delight  and,  bending  over  the 
table,  added  a  lingering  touch  or  two  to  his  work — a 
rough  expressive  sketch  of  himself  standing  back  from  an 
easel,  a  palette  in  his  left  hand,  a  brush  in  his  right,  his 
hair  unkempt,  his  whole  attitude  comically  suggestive  of 
an  artist  in  a  moment  of  delirious  oblivion.  It  was  the 
curt,  abrupt  expression  of  a  mood,  but  there  was  clever- 
ness, distinction,  humor  in  every  line. 

"Boy,  this  is  fine!  Fine!  That  duel  will  be  fought, 
5  61 


MAX 

take  my  word  for  it.  But,  look  here,  we  must  toast 
this  first  attempt!  Madame!  Madame!"  He  literally 
shouted  the  words,  and  madame  came  flying  out. 

"  Madame,  have  you  a  liqueur  brandy — very  old  ?  I 
have  discovered  that  this  is  a  fete  day." 

"But  certainly,  monsieur!  A  cognac  of  the  finest 
excellence." 

"  Out  with  it,  then !  And  bring  two  glasses — no,  bring 
three  glasses!     You  must  drink  a  toast  with  us!" 

Madame  bustled  off,  laughing  and  excited,  and  again 
the  Irishman  gripped  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"You've  taken  me  in!"  he  cried.  "Absolutely  and 
entirely  taken  me  in !  I  thought  you  a  slip  of  a  boy  with 
a  head  full  of  notions,  and  what  do  I  find  but  that  it's 
a  little  genius  I've  got!  A  genius,  upon  my  word!  And 
here  comes  the  blessed  liquor!" 

His  whole-hearted  enthusiasm  was  like  fire,  it  leaped 
from  one  to  the  other  of  his  companions.  As  madame 
came  back,  gasping  in  her  haste,  he  ran  to  meet  her,  and, 
seizing  the  brandy  and  the  glasses,  drew  her  with  him  to 
the  table. 

"  Madame,  you  are  a  Frenchwoman — therefore  an  ar- 
tist.    Tell  me  what  you  think  of  this!" 

In  his  excitement  he  spoke  in  English,  but  madame 
understood  his  actions  if  .not  his  words.  Full  of  curiosity 
she  bent  over  the  boy's  shoulder,  peered  into  the  sketch, 
then  threw  up  her  hands  in  genuine  admiration. 

'Ah,  but  he  was  an  artist,  was  monsieur!  A  true  ar- 
tist! It  was  delicious — ravishing!'  She  turned  from  one 
of  her  customers  to  the  other.  '  If  monsieur  would  but 
put  his  name  to  this  picture  she  would  never  again  have 
the  table  washed;  and  in  time  to  come,  when  he  had 
made  his  big  success — ' 

"  Good,  madame!  Good!  When  he  has  made  his  big 
success  he  will  come  back  here  and  laugh  and  cry  over 

62 


WHY.    BOY,    THIS    IS    CLEVER       CLEVER   -CLEVER!" 


MAX 

this,  and  say,  'God  be  with  the  youth  of  us!'  as  we  say 
in  my  old  country.     Come,  boy,  put  your  name  to  it!" 

The  boy  glanced  up  at  him.  His  face  was  aglow,  there 
were  tears  of  emotion  in  his  eyes. 

"I  can  say  nothing,"  he  cried,  "but  that  I — I  have 
never  been  so  happy  in  my  life."  And,  bending  over 
his  sketch,  he  wrote  across  the  marble-topped  table  a 
single  word — the  word  'Max.' 

The  Frenchwoman  bent  over  his  shoulder.  "Max!" 
she  murmured.     "A  pretty  name!" 

The  Irishman  looked  as  well.  "  Max !  So  that's  what 
they  call  you?  Max!  Well,  let's  drink  to  it!"  He  filled 
the  three  glasses  and  raised  his  own. 

"To  the  name  of  Max!"  he  said.  "May  it  be  known 
from  here  to  the  back  of  God's  speed!"  He  swallowed 
the  brandy  and  laid  down  his  glass. 

" To  M.  Max!"  The  Frenchwoman  smiled.  "  A  great 
future,  monsieur!"     She  sipped  and  bowed. 

Of  the  three,  the  boy  alone  sat  motionless.  His  heart 
felt  strangely  full,  the  tears  in  his  eyes  were  dangerously 
near  to  falling. 

"Come,  Max!     Up  with  your  glass!" 

"  Monsieur,  I — I  beg  you  to  excuse  me !  My  heart  is 
very  full  of  your  kindness." 

"  Nonsense,  boy!     Drink!" 

The  boy  laughed  with  a  catch  in  his  breath,  then  he 
drank  a  little  with  nervous  haste,  coughing  as  he  laid  his 
glass  down.  The  cognac  of  the  Maison  Gustav  was  of  a 
fiery  nature. 

The  Irishman  laughed.  "  Ah,  another  peep  behind  the 
mask!  You  may  be  an  artist,  young  man — you  may 
have  advanced  ideas — but,  for  all  that,  you're  only  out 
of  the  nursery!  It's  for  me  to  make  a  man  of  you,  I  see. 
Come,  madame,  the  addition,  if  you  please!  We  must 
be  going." 

67 


MAX 

For  a  moment  madame  was  lost  in  calculation,  then 
she  decorously  mentioned  the  amount  of  their  debt. 

The  Irishman  paid  with  the  manner  of  a  prince,  and, 
slipping  his  arm  again  through  the  boy's,  moved  to  the 
door;    there  he  looked  back. 

"Good-day,  madame!  Many  thanks  for  your  charm- 
ing hospitality!  Give  my  respects  to  monsieur,  your 
husband — and  kiss  the  little  Leon  for  me!" 

They  passed  out  into  the  rue  Fabert,  into  the  fresh  and 
frosty  air,  and  involuntarily  the  boy's  arm  pressed  his. 

"  How  am  I  to  thank  you  ?"  he  murmured.  "  It  is  too 
much — this  kindness  to  a  stranger." 

The  Irishman  paused  and  looked  at  him.  "  Thanks  be 
damned! — and  stranger  be  damned!"  he  said  with  sud- 
den vehemence.  "  Aren't  we  citizens  of  a  free  world  ? 
Must  I  know  a  man  for  years  before  I  can  call  him  my 
friend  ?  And  must  every  one  I've  known  since  childhood 
be  my  friend  ?  I  tell  you  I  saw  you  and  I  liked  you — 
that  was  all,  and  'twas  enough." 

Max  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  grave  simplicity. 
"Forgive  me!"  he  said. 

Instantly  the  other's  annoyance  was  dispelled.  "  For- 
give!    Nonsense!     Tell  me  your  plans,  that's  all  I  want." 

"  My  plans  are  very  easy  to  explain.  I  shall  rent  a 
studio  here  in  Paris — and  there  I  shall  work." 

"As  a  student?" 

"  No,  I  have  had  my  years  of  study;  I  am  older  than 
you  think."  He  took  no  notice  of  the  other's  raised  eye- 
brows. "  I  want  to  paint  a  picture — a  great  picture.  I 
am  seeking  the  idea." 

"  Good !  Good !  Then  we'll  make  that  our  basis — the 
search  for  the  idea.     The  search  for  the  great  idea!" 

Max  thrilled.  'The  search  for  the  idea!  How  splen- 
did !  Where  must  it  begin  ?  Not  in  fashionable  Paris ! 
Oh,  not  in  fashionable  Paris!' 

64 


MAX 

"Fashionable  Paris!"  The  Irishman  laughed  in  loud 
disdain.  "  Oh  no !  For  us  it  must  be  the  highways  and 
the  byways,  eh?" 

Max  freed  his  arm.  "Ah  yes!  that  is  what  I  want 
—  that  is  what  I  want.  The  highways  and  the  by- 
ways. It  is  necessary  that  I  am  very  solitary  here  in 
Paris.  Quit^  unknown,  you  understand?  —  quite  un- 
noticed." 

"The  mystery?  I  understand.  And  now,  tell  me, 
shall  it  be  the  highways  or  the  byways — Montmartre  or 
the  Quartier  Latin  ?" 

Max  smiled  decisively.     "  Montmartre." 

"You  know  Montmartre?" 

"No." 

The  Irishman  laughed  again.  "  Good ! "  he  cried. 
'You're  a  fine  adventurer!  You  have  the  right  spirit! 
Always  know  your  own  mind,  whatever  else  you're 
ignorant  about!  But  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  Mont- 
martre swarms  with  your  needy  fellow-countrymen." 

The  boy  looked  up.  "  My  needy  fellow-countrymen 
will  not  harm  me — or  know  me." 

"Good  again!  Then  the  coast  is  clear!  I  only 
thought  to  warn  you." 

"I  appreciate  the  thought."  For  an  instant  the  old 
reserve  touched  the  voice. 

"Now,  Max!  Now!  Now!"  The  other  turned  to 
him,  caught  his  arm  again,  and  swung  him  out  into  the 
Esplanade  des  Invalides.  "  You're  not  to  be  doing  that, 
you  know!  You're  not!  You're  not!  I  see  through 
you  like  a  pane  of  glass.  Sometimes  you  forget  yourself 
and  get  natural,  like  you  did  in  the  cafe  this  time  back; 
then,  all  of  a  sudden,  some  imp  of  suspicion  shakes  his 
tail  at  you  and  says,  '  Look  here,  young  man,  put  that 
Irishman  in  his  place !  Keep  him  at  a  respectable  arm's 
length!'     Now,  isn't  that  gospel  truth?" 

65 


MAX 

The  boy  laughed,  vanquished.  "  Monsieur,"  he  said, 
naively,  "  I  will  not  do  it  again." 

"That's  right!  You  see,  I'm  not  interesting  or  pict- 
uresque enough  to  suspect.  When  all's  said  and  done, 
I'm  just  a  poor  devil  of  an  Irishman  with  enough  imagi- 
nation to  prevent  his  doing  any  particular  harm  in  this 
world,  and  enough  money  to  prevent  his  doing  any  special 
good.  My  name  is  Edward  Fitzgerald  Blake,  and  I  have 
an  old  barracks  of  a  castle  in  County  Clare.  I  have  five 
aunts,  seven  uncles,  and  twenty-four  first  cousins,  every 
one  of  whom  thinks  me  a  lost  soul;  but  I  have  neither 
sister  nor  brother,  wife  nor  child  to  help  or  hinder  me. 
There  now!  I  have  gone  to  confession,  and  you  must 
give  me  absolution  and  an  easy  penance!" 

Max  laughed.     "Thank  you,  monsieur!" 

"Not  'monsieur,'  for  goodness'  sake!  Plain  Ned,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"Ned?"  The  slight  uncertainty,  coupled  with  the 
foreign  intonation,  lent  a  charm  to  the  name. 

"That's  it!  But  I  never  heard  it  sound  half  so  well 
before.  Personally,  it  always  struck  me  as  being  rather 
like  its  owner — of  no  particular  significance.  But  I 
must  be  coming  down  to  earth  again,  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  our  friend  McCutcheon  at  three  o'clock."  He 
drew  out  his  watch.  "Oh,  by  the  powers  and  domina- 
tions, I  have  only  two  minutes  to  keep  it  in!  How  the 
time  has  raced!  I  say,  there's  an  auto-taxi  looming  on 
the  horizon,  over  by  the  Invalides;  I  must  catch  it  if  I 
can.     Come,  boy!     Put  your  best  foot  foremost!" 

Laughing  and  running  like  a  couple  of  school-boys, 
they  zigzagged  through  the  labyrinth  of  formal  trees,  and 
secured  the  cab  as  it  was  wheeling  toward  the  quais. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Blake.  "And  now,  what  next? 
Can  I  give  you  a  lift?"  His  foot  was  on  the  step  of  the 
cab,  his  fingers  on  the  handle  of  the  door,  his  face,  flushed 

66 


MAX 

from  his  run  and  from  the  cold,  looked  pleasantly  young. 
The  boy's  heart  went  out  to  him  in  a  glow  of  comradeship. 
"  No,  I  will  remain  here.     But  I — I  want  to  see  you 
soon  again.     May  I?" 

"  May  you  ?  Say  the  word !  To-morrow  ?  To-night  ?" 
The  cab  was  snorting  impatience ;  Blake  opened  the  door 
and  stepped  inside. 

The  boy  colored.     "To-night?" 

"Right!  To-night  it  shall  be!  To-night  we'll  scale 
the  heights."     He  held  out  his  hand. 

Max  took  it  smilingly.  "  You  have  not  asked  me 
where  I  live." 

"  Never  thought  of  it!     Where  is  it?" 
"The  Hotel  Railleux,  in  the  rue  de  Dunkerque." 
"  Not  a  very  festive  locality !     But  sufficient  for  the 
day,  eh?     Well,  I'll  be  outside  the  door  of  the  Hotel 
Railleux  at  nine  o'clock." 

"At  nine  o'clock.     I  shall  be  awaiting  you." 
"  Right  again !    Good-bye !    It's  been  a  good  morning." 
Max  smiled,  a  smile  that  seemed  to  have  caught  some- 
thing of  the  sun's  brightness,  something  of  the  promise 
of  spring  trembling  in  the  pale  sky. 

"  It  has  been  a  good  morning.     I  shall  never  forget  it." 
Blake  laughed.     "Don't  say  that,  boy!     We'll  oust 
it  with  many  a  better." 

He  released  the  boy's  hand  and  gave  the  address  to 
the  chauffeur.  There  was  a  moment's  pause,  a  rasp  and 
wrench  of  machinery,  and  the  willing  little  cab  flew  off 
toward  the  nearest  bridge. 

Max  stood  watching  it,  obsessed  by  a  strange  sensation. 
This  morning  he  had  been  utterly  alone;  this  morning  the 
fair,  cold  face  of  Paris  had  been  immobile  and  speculative. 
Now  a  miracle  had  come  to  pass;  the  coldness  had  been 
swept  aside  and  the  beauty,  the  warm,  palpitating  human- 
ity had  shone  into  his  eyes,  dazzling  him — fascinating  him 

67 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NINE  o'clock  found  Max  waiting  in  the  rue  de 
Dunkerque.  Paris,  consummate  actress  that  she 
is,  was  already  arraying  herself  for  the  nightly  appeal  to 
her  audience  of  pleasure-seekers.  Like  a  dancer  in  her 
dressing-room,  she  but  awaited  the  signal  to  step  forth 
into  the  glamour  of  the  footlights ;  the  rouge  was  on  her 
lips,  the  stars  shone  in  her  hair,  the  jewelled  slippers 
caressed  her  light  feet.  Even  here,  in  the  colorless  region 
of  the  Gare  du  Nord,  the  perfumed  breath  of  the  cour- 
tesan city  crept  like  the  fumes  of  wine;  the  insidious 
sense  of  nocturnal  energy  swept  the  brain,  as  the  traffic 
jingled  by  and  the  crowds  upon  the  footpaths  thronged 
into  the  cafes  and  overflowed  into  the  roadway. 

To  the  boy,  walking  slowly  up  and  down,  with  eager 
eyes  that  sought  the  one  face  among  the  many,  the 
scene  came  as  a  joyous  revelation  that  called  inevitably 
to  his  youth  and  his  vitality.  He  made  no  pretence  of 
analyzing  his  sensations:  he  was  stirred,  intoxicated  by 
the  movement,  the  lights,  the  naturalness  and  artificial- 
ity that  walked  hand-in-hand  in  so  strange  a  fellowship. 
A  new  excitement,  unlike  the  excitement  of  the  morn- 
ing, was  at  work  within  him;  his  blood  danced,  his  brain 
answered  to  every  fleeting  picture.  He  was  in  that 
subtlest  of  all  moods  when  the  mind  swings  out  upon  the 
human  tide,  comprehending  its  every  ripple  with  a  deep 
intuition  that  seems  like  a  retrospective  knowledge.  He 
had  never  until  this  moment  stood  alone  in  a  Paris  street 

68 


MAX 

at  night;  he  had  never  before  rubbed  shoulders  with  a 
Parisian  night  crowd;  but  the  inspiration  was  there — 
the  exaltation — that  made  him  one  with  this  restless 
throng  of  men  and  women  whose  antecedents  were  un- 
known to  him,  whose  future  was  veiled  to  his  gaze. 

The  sensation  culminated  when,  out  of  the  crowd,  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder  and  a  familiar  voice  rose 
above  the  babble  of  sound. 

"Well,  and  are  we  girded  for  the  heights?" 

It  came  at  the  right  moment,  it  fitted  absolutely  with 
his  thoughts — the  soft,  pleasant  tones,  the  easy  friendli- 
ness that  seemed  to  accept  all  things  as  they  came.  His 
instant  answer  was  to  smile  into  the  Irishman's  face  and 
to  press  the  arm  that  had  been  slipped  through  his. 

"  It's  too  early  for  anything  very  characteristic,  but 
there  are  always  impressions  to  be  got." 

Again  the  boy  replied  by  a  pressure  of  the  arm,  and 
together  he  and  Blake  began  to  walk.  The  strange 
pleasure  of  yielding  himself  to  this  man's  will  filtered 
through  Max's  being  again,  as  it  had  done  that  morning, 
painting  the  world  in  rosy  tints.  The  situation  was 
anomalous,  but  he  ignored  the  anomaly.  His  boats  were 
burned ;  the  great  ice-bound  sea  protected  him  from  the 
past;  he  was  here  in  Paris,  in  the  first  moments  of  a  fas- 
cinating present,  under  the  guardianship  of  this  com- 
rade whose  face  he  had  never  seen  until  yesterday,  whose 
very  name  was  still  unfamiliar  to  his  ears.  It  was 
anomalous,  but  it  held  happiness;  and  who,  equipped 
with  youth  and  health,  starting  out  upon  life's  road, 
stops  to  question  happiness?  He  was  the  adventuring 
prince  in  the  fairy-tale:  every  step  was  taken  upon  en- 
chanted ground. 

Nothing  gave  him  cause  for  quarrel  as  they  made  their 
way  onward.  Even  the  Boulevard  de  Magenta,  with  its 
prosaic  tram-lines,  its  large,  cheap  shops,  its  common 

69 


MAX 

brasseries  and  spanning  railway  bridge,  seemed  a  place  of 
promise;  and  as  they  passed  on,  ever  mounting  toward 
Montmartre,  his  brain  quickened  to  new  joy,  new  curiosity 
in  every  flaunting  advertisement,  every  cobble-stone  in 
the  long  steep  way  of  the  Boulevard  Barbes,  the  rue  de 
la  Nature,  and  the  rue  de  Clignancourt,  until  at  length 
they  emerged  into  the  rue  Andre  de  Sarte — that  narrow 
street,  quaint  indeed  in  its  dark  old  houses  and  its  small, 
mysterious  wine  shops  that  savor  of  Italy  or  Spain. 

They  paused,  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  Andr£  de  Sarte, 
by  the  doorway  of  an  old,  overcrowded  curio  shop — the 
curio  shop  that  in  time  to  come  was  destined  to  become 
so  familiar  a  landmark  to  them  both,  to  stand  sentinel 
at  the  gateway  of  so  many  emotions. 

The  lights,  the  shadows,  the  effects  were  all  uncertain 
in  this  strange  and  fascinating  neighborhood.  High 
above  them,  white  against  the  winter  sky,  glimmered  the 
domes  of  the  Sacre-Cceur,  looking  down  in  symbolic 
silence  upon  the  restless  city;  to  the  left  stretched  the 
rue  Ronsard,  with  its  deserted  market  and  lonely  pave- 
ment; to  the  right,  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie,  pict- 
uresque as  its  name,  wound  its  precipitous  way  ap- 
parently to  the  very  stars,  while  at  their  feet,  creeping 
upward  to  the  threshold  of  the  church,  was  the  planta- 
tion of  rocks,  trees,  and  holly  bushes  that  in  the  mys- 
terious darkness  seemed  aquiver  with  a  thousand  whis- 
pered secrets.  There  was  deep  contrast  here  to  the 
excitement,  the  vivacity  of  the  boulevards;  it  seemed 
as  if  some  shadow  from  the  white  domes  above  had  given 
sanctuary  to  the  spirit  of  the  place — the  familiar  spirit 
of  the  time-stained  houses,  the  stone  steps  worn  by  many 
feet,  the  dark,  naked  trees. 

The  boy's  hand  again  pressed  his  companion's  arm. 

"What  are  those  steps?"     He  pointed  to  the  right. 

"The  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie;    they  lead  up  to  the 

70 


MAX 

rue  Miiller,  and,  if  you  desire  it,  to  the  Sacr£-Cceur  itself. 
Shall  we  climb?"  ' 

"But  yes!  Certainly!"  The  boy's  voice  was  tense 
and  eager.  He  hurried  forward,  drawing  his  com- 
panion with  him,  and  side  by  side  they  began  the  mount- 
ing of  the  stone  steps — those  steps,  flanked  by  the  row  of 
houses,  that  rise  one  above  the  other,  as  if  emulous  to 
attain  the  skies. 

Up  they  went,  their  ears  attentive  to  the  conflicting 
sounds  that  drifted  forth  from  the  doorways,  their  nos- 
trils assailed  by  the  faintly  pungent  scent  of  the  shrubs 
in  the  plantation.  Higher  and  higher  they  climbed, 
sensible  with  each  step  of  a  greater  isolation,  of  a  rarer, 
clearer  air.  Above  them,  in  one  of  the  higher  houses  in 
the  rue  Miiller,  some  one  was  playing  a  riddle,  and  the 
piercing  sweet  sounds  came  through  the  night  like  a 
human  voice,  adding  the  poignancy,  the  passion  and 
pathos  of  human  things  to  the  aloofness  and  unreality  of 
the  scene. 

The  boy  was  the  first  to  catch  this  lonely  music,  and 
as  though  it  called  to  him  in  some  curious  way,  he  sud- 
denly freed  his  arm  from  Blake's  and  ran  forward  up  the 
steps. 

When  Blake  overtook  him  he  had  passed  up  the  rue 
Miiller,  and  was  leaning  over  the  wooden  paling  that 
fronts  the  Sacre-Cceur,  his  elbows  resting  upon  it,  his  face 
between  his  hands,  his  eyes  held  by  the  glitter  of  Paris 
lying  below  him. 

Blake  came  quietly  up  behind  him.  "  I  thought  you 
had  given  me  the  slip." 

He  turned.  Again  the  light  of  inspiration,  the  curious 
illumination  was  apparent  in  his  face. 

'This  is  most  wonderful!"  he  said.  "Most  wonder- 
ful! It  is  here  that  I  shall  live.  Here — here — with 
Paris  at  my  feet." 

7i 


MAX 

Blake  laughed — laughed  good-humoredly  at  the  final- 
ity, the  artless  arrogance  of  the  tone. 

"  It  may  not  be  so  easy  to  find  a  dwelling  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Sacre-Cceur." 

Max  looked  at  him  with  calm,  grave  eyes.  "  I  do  not 
consider  difficulties,  monsieur.  It  is  here  that  I  shall 
live.     My  mind  is  made  up." 

"  But  this  is  not  the  artists'  quarter.  You  may  seek 
your  inspiration  in  Montmartre,  but  you  must  have  your 
studio  across  the  river." 

"Why  must  I?     What  compels  me?" 

The  Irishman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Nothing 
compels  you,  but  it  is  the  thing  to  do.  You  can  live  here, 
certainly,  if  you  want  to — there  is  no  law  to  forbid  it — 
and  you  can  find  a  studio  on  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy; 
but  the  other  is  the  thing  to  do." 

The  boy  smiled  his  young  wise  smile.  "  Monsieur, 
there  is  only  one  thing  to  do — the  thing  one  wants  to  do, 
the  thing  the  heart  compels.  If  I  am  to  know  Paris  I 
will  know  her  from  here — study  her,  love  her  from  here. 
This  place  is  one  of  miracle.  One  might  know  life  here, 
living  in  the  skies.  Listen!  That  musician  knows  it!" 
He  thrust  out  his  hand  impulsively  and  caught  Blake's 
in  a  pressure  full  of  nervous  tension,  full  of  magnetism. 
"What  is  it  he  plays?     Tell  me!     Tell  me!" 

His  touch,  his  excitement  fired  Blake's  Celtic  blood, 
banishing  his  mood  of  criticism. 

"The  man  is  playing  scraps  from  Louise— Charpen- 
tier's  Louise." 

"  I  have  never  heard  Louise." 

"What!     And  you  a  student  of  Paris?     Why,   it's 

Charpentier's    hymn    to    Montmartre.     Listen,    now!" 

His  voice  quickened.     "He's  playing  a  bit  out  of  the 

night    scene.     He's    playing    the    declaration    of    the 

Noctambule: 

72 


MAX 

'Je  suis  le  Plaisir  de  Paris! 

Je  vais  vers  les  Amantes — que  le  De"sir  tourmente' 
Je  vais,  cherchant  les  coeurs  qu'oubli  a  le  bonheur. 

La-bas  glanant  le  Rire,  ici  semant  l'Envie, 
Prechant  partout  le  droit  de  tous  a  la  folie; 

Je  suis  le  Procureur  de  la  grande  Cite! 
Ton  humble  serviteur — ou  ton  maitre!" 


He  murmured  the  words  below  his  breath,  pausing  as 
the  music  deepened  with  the  passion  of  the  player  and 
the  sinister  song  poured  into  the  night. 

Then  came  a  break,  a  pause,  and  the  music  flowed 
forth  again,  but  curiously  altered,  curiously  softened  in 
character. 

Max's  fingers  tightened.  "Ah,  but  listen  now,  my 
friend!" 

Blake  turned  to  him  in  quick  appreciation.  "Good! 
Good!  You  are  an  artist !  That's  Louise  singing  in  the 
third  act,  on  the  day  she  is  to  be  Muse  of  Montmartre. 
It  is  up  here  in  the  little  house  her  lover  has  provided 
for  her;  it  is  twilight,  and  she  is  in  the  garden,  looking 
down  upon  all  this" — he  waved  his  hand  comprehen- 
sively— "it  is  her  moment — the  triumph  and  climax  of 
love.  Try  to  think  what  she  is  saying!"  He  paused, 
and  they  stood  breathless  and  enchained,  while  the  violin 
trembled  under  the  hand  of  its  master,  vibrant  and 
penetrating. 

"What  is  it  she  says?"     Max  whispered  the  words. 

Blake's  reply  was  to  murmur  the  burden  of  the  song 
in  the  same  hushed  way  as  he  had  spoken  the  song  of 
the  Noctambule. 

"  Depuis  le  jour  ou  je  me  suis  donnee,  toute  fleurie  semble  ma 
destined. 
Je  crois  rever  sous  un  ciel  de  feerie,  Fame  encore  grisee  de  ton 
premier  baiser!" 

73 


MAX 

But,  abruptly — abruptly  as  a  light  might  be  extin- 
guished—  the  music  ceased,  and  Max  released  Blake's 
hand. 

"It  is  all  most  wonderful,"  he  said;  "but  the  words 
of  that  song — they  do  not  quite  please  me." 

"  Why  ?  Have  you  never  sung  that '  I'dme  encore  grisee 
de  ton  premier  baiser !'  " 

Then,  as  if  half  ashamed  of  the  emotional  moment, 
he  gave  a  little  laugh,  satirical  and  yet  sad. 

"  Was  there  never  a  little  dancer,"  he  added,  "  never  a 
little  model  in  all  these  years — and  you  so  very  ancient?" 

The  boy  ignored  the  jest. 

"  I  am  not  a  believer  in  love,"  he  said,  evasively. 

"Not  a  believer  in  love!  Well,  upon  my  soul,  the 
world  is  getting  very  old!  You  look  like  a  child  from 
school,  and  you  talk  like  some  quaint  little  book  I  might 
have  picked  up  on  the  quais.     What  does  it  all  mean?" 

At  the  perplexity  of  the  tone  Max  laughed.  "  Very 
little,  mon  ami!  I  am  no  philosopher;  but  about  this 
love,  I  have  thought  a  little,  and  have  gained  to  a  con- 
clusion. It  is  like  this !  Light  love  is  desire  of  pleasure ; 
great  love  is  fear  of  being  alone." 

"Then  you  hold  that  man  should  be  alone?" 

"Why  not?"  Max  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "We 
come  into  the  world  alone;   we  go  out  of  it  alone." 

"A  cold  philosophy!" 

"  A  true  one,  I  think.  If  more  lives  were  based  upon 
it  we  would  have  more  achievement  and  less  emotion." 

The  Irishman's  enthusiasm  caught  sudden  fire. 

"  And  who  wants  less  emotion  ?  Isn't  emotion  the  salt 
of  life  ?  Why,  where  would  a  poor  devil  of  a  wanderer 
like  myself  be,  if  he  hadn't  the  dream  in  the  back  of  his 
head  that  the  right  woman  was  waiting  for  him  some- 
where?" 

Max  watched  him  seriously. 

74 


MAX 

"Then  you  have  never  loved?" 

"  Never  loved  ?  God  save  us !  I  have  been  in  and  out 
of  love  ever  since  I  was  seventeen.  But,  bless  your 
heart,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  right  woman!" 

Max's  intent  eyes  flashed.  "  And  you  think  the  right 
woman  will  be  content  to  take  you — after  all  that?" 

Blake  came  a  step  nearer,  leaning  over  the  parapet 
his  shoulder  touching  his  companion's. 

"  Boy,"  he  said,  in  a  changed  tone,  "  listen  to  me.  It's 
a  big  subject,  this  subject  of  love  and  liking — too  big  for 
me  to  riddle  out,  perhaps.  But  this  I  know,  the  world 
was  made  as  it  is,  and  neither  you  nor  I  can  change  it; 
no,  nor  ten  thousand  cleverer  than  we!  It's  all  a  mys- 
ter)'-,  and  the  queerest  bit  of  mystery  in  it  is  that  a  man 
may  go  down  into  the  depths  and  rub  shoulders  with 
the  worst,  and  yet  keep  the  soul  of  him  clean  for  the  one 
woman." 

"  Don't  you  think  there  are  men  who  can  do  without 
either  the  depths  or  the  one  woman?" 

"There  are  abnormalities,  of  course." 

Max  waived  the  words.  "  I  am  serious.  I  ask  you 
if  you  do  not  believe  that  there  are  certain  people 
to  whom  these  things  you  speak  of  are  poor  things — 
people  who  believe  that  they  are  sufficient  unto  them- 
selves?'* 

The  other's  mouth  twisted  into  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"  Show  me  the  man  who  is  sufficient  unto  himself!" 

Swiftly — as  swiftly  as  he  had  whipped  the  pencil  from 
his  pocket  in  the  cafe  that  morning — Max  stepped  back, 
his  head  up,  his  hand  resting  lightly  on  the  wooden 
parapet. 

"Monsieur!     You  see  him!" 

Blake's  expression  changed  to  keen  surprise;  he 
turned  sharply  and  peered  into  the  boy's  face. 

'  You  ?"  he  said,  incredulously.     "  You,  a  slip  of  a  boy, 

75 


MAX 

to  ignore  the  softer  side  of  life  and  set  yourself  up  against 
Nature?     Take  that  fairy-tale  elsewhere!" 

Max  laughed.     "  Very  well,  my  friend,  wait  and  see!" 

"And  do  you  know  how  long  I  give  you  to  defy  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil?  A  full-blooded  young 
animal  like  you!" 

"How  long?" 

"Three  months — not  a  day  more." 

"Three  months!"  Max  laughed,  and,  as  had  hap- 
pened before,  his  mood  altered  with  the  laugh.  The 
moment  of  artistic  exaltation  passed;  again  he  was  the 
boy — the  adventurer,  brimming  with  spirits,  thirsting  to 
break  a  lance  with  life.  "Three  months!  Very  well! 
Wait  and  see!  And,  in  the  mean  time,  Paris  is  awake, 
is  she  not?" 

Blake  looked  at  the  laughing  face,  the  bright  eyes,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  I  believe  you're  a  cluricaun,  come  all  the  way  from 
the  bogs  of  Clare!  Come  here,  and  take  my  arm  again, 
or  you'll  be  vanishing  into  that  plantation!" 

It  is  unlikely  that  Max  understood  all  the  other's 
phrases,  but  he  understood  the  lenient,  bantering  tone 
that  had  in  it  a  touch  of  something  bordering  upon 
affection,  and  with  a  gracious  eagerness  he  stepped 
forward  and  slipped  his  hand  through  the  proffered 
arm. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  take  me?"  All  the  light- 
ness, all  the  arrogance  had  melted  from  his  voice,  his 
tone  was  almost  as  soft,  almost  as  submissive  as  a 
woman's. 

Blake  looked  down  upon  him.  "  I  hardly  know — after 
that  philosophy  of  yours!  I  thought  of  taking  you  to  a 
little  Montmartre  cabaret,  where  many  a  poet  wrote  his 
first  verses  and  many  an  artist  sang  his  first  song — a 
dingy  place,  but  a  place  with  atmosphere." 

76 


MAX 

Max  clung  to  his  arm,  the  light  flashing  into  his  eyes. 
"Oh,  my  friend,  that  is  the  place!  That  is  the  place! 
Let  us  go — let  us  run,  lest  we  miss  a  moment!" 

"  Good !  Then  hey  for  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy  and 
the  quest  of  the  great  idea!" 

6 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  ascent  of  the  heights  had  been  exciting,  the 
descent  held  a  sense  of  satisfaction.  At  a  more 
sober  pace,  with  a  finer,  less  exuberant  sense  of  comrade- 
ship, the  two  passed  down  the  hundred-odd  steps  of  the 
Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie,  taking  an  occasional  peep  into 
some  dark  and  silent  corner,  halting  here  and  there  to 
glance  into  the  dimly  lighted  hallway  of  some  mys- 
terious house.  On  the  upward  way  they  had  been  all  an- 
ticipation; now,  with  appetites  appeased,  they  toyed 
with  their  sensations  like  diners  with  their  dessert. 

"  Who  are  the  people  living  in  these  houses  ? ' '  The  boy 
put  the  question  in  a  whisper,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing 
the  strange  silence,  the  close  secrecy  that  hung  about 
them. 

"The  people  who  live  here?  God  knows!  Probably 
you  would  find  a  blanchisseuse  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
on  the  fourth  a  poet  or  perhaps  a  musician,  like  our 
fiddler  of  Louise.  This  is  the  real  Bohemia,  you  know- 
not  the  conscious  Bohemia,  but  the  true  one,  that  is  law- 
less simply  because  it  knows  no  laws." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  steps  and  were  once 
again  traversing  the  dim  rue  Andre  de  Sarte,  the  boy's 
eyes  and  ears  awake  to  every  impression. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  in  slow  and  meditative  answer.  '  Yes, 
I  think  I  understand.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  born 
unfettered." 

"  I  don't  know  about  wonderful;  it's  a  profoundly  in- 

78 


MAX 

teresting  condition.  You  get  that  blending  of  egoism 
and  originality — daring  and  scepticism — that  may  pro- 
duce the  artist  or  may  produce  the  criminal." 

"  But  you  believe  that  the  creature  of  temperament 
— of  egoism  and  originality — may  spring  up  in  a  lawful 
atmosphere  as  well  as  in  a  lawless  one?"  The  question 
came  softly.  Max  had  ceased  to  look  about  him,  ceased 
to  observe  the  streets  that  grew  more  crowded,  more 
brightly  lighted  as  they  made  their  downward  way. 

Blake  smiled.     "The  tares  among  the  wheat,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  admit  the  tares  among  the  wheat; 
but  such  growths  are  mostly  unsatisfactory.  Forced 
fruit  is  never  precisely  the  same  as  wild  fruit." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because,  my  boy,  there  is  a  self-consciousness  about 
all  forced  things,  and  the  hallmark  of  the  Bohemian  is 
an  absolute  ingenuousness." 

"  But  to  return  to  your  example.  Suppose  the  tare 
among  the  wheat  had  always  recognized  itself — had  al- 
ways craved  to  be  a  tare  with  other  tares — until  at 
length  its  roots  spread  and  spread  and  passed  beyond 
the  boundary  of  the  wheat-field!  Why  should  it  not 
flourish  and  lift  its  head  among  the  weeds?" 

"  Because,  boy,  it  would  have  its  traditions.  It  might 
live  forever  among  the  weeds,  it  might  flourish  and 
reign  over  them,  but  it  would  have  a  reminiscence  un- 
known to  them — the  knowledge  of  the  years  in  which  it 
strove  to  mold  itself  to  the  likeness  of  the  wheat  before 
rebellion  woke  within  it.  I  know!  I  know!  I  know 
Bohemia — love  Bohemia — but  at  best  I  am  only  a 
naturalized  Bohemian.  I  can  live  on  a  crust  with  these 
good  creatures,  or  I  can  send  my  gold  flying  with  theirs, 
but  I'm  hanged  if,  for  instance,  I  can  sin  in  quite  the 
delicious,  child-like,  whole-hearted  way  that  is  their  pre- 

79 


MAX 

rogative !  I  have  done  most  of  the  things  that  they  have 
done,  but  their  disarming  candor,  their  simple  joy  in 
their  exploits,  is  something  debarred  to  me.  It  isn't  for 
nothing,  I  tell  you,  that  I  have  countless  God-fearing 
generations  behind  me!" 

.He  spoke  jestingly,  but  his  glance,  when  it  met  the 
eager  impetuosity  of  the  boy's,  was  quiet  and  observant. 

"  I  disagree  with  you!"  Max  cried,  suddenly.  "  I  dis- 
agree with  you  wholly!  Individuality  has  nothing  to  do 
with  environment — nothing  to  do  with  ancestry." 

"  Ah,  that's  not  logical!  Humanity  is  only  a  chain  of 
which  we  are  the  last  links  forged.  I  have  had  my  own 
delusions,  when  I  sent  the  ideal  to  the  right-about  and 
made  realism  my  god,  but  as  time  has  gone  on  my 
theories  have  gone  back  on  me,  and  tradition  has  come 
into  its  own,  until  now  I  see  the  skeleton  in  every  beauti- 
ful body,  and  the  heart  of  me  craves  something  behind 
even  the  bones — the  soul  of  the  creature." 

"  But  that  is  different,  because  your  desire  and  your 
theory  have  been  the  common  desire  and  theory — the 
things  that  burn  themselves  out.  My  theory  is  not  of 
the  body,  it  is  of  the  mind.  I  only  contend  that  in  all 
the  greater  concerns  of  life  I  am  a  being  perfectly  com- 
petent to  stand  alone." 

"  My  dear  boy,  by  the  mercy  of  God  all  the  ideas  of 
youth  are  reversible!  My  fire  has  been  extinguished; 
your  ice  will  hold  until  the  sun  is  in  the  zenith,  and  not 
one  moment  longer." 

"I  deny  it!     I  deny  it!" 

He  spoke  with  a  fine  defiance.  He  paused,  the  more 
convincingly  to  express  himself;  but  even  as  he  paused, 
his  eyes  and  his  mind  were  suddenly  opened  to  a  fresh 
impression,  were  lured  from  the  moment  of  gravity, 
caught  and  held  by  the  lights  and  crowds  into  which 
they  had  abruptly  emerged — lights  and  crowds  through 

80 


MAX 

which  the  pervading  sense  of  a  pleasure-chase  stole  like 
a  scent  borne  on  a  breeze. 

"Where  are  we?"  he  said,  sharply.  "What  place  is 
this?" 

" The  Boulevard  de  Clichy.  Come,  boy!  Discussions 
are  over.  The  curtain  is  up ;  the  play  is  on!"  Without 
apology,  Blake  caught  his  shoulder  and  swung  him  out 
into  the  roadway,  as  he  had  swung  him  across  the  Es- 
planade des  Invalides  that  morning.  "  Come !  I'm  going 
to  insist  upon  a  new  medicine ;  my  first  prescription  was 
not  the  right  one.  You're  too  theoretical  to-night  for  a 
place  of  traditions.  We'll  shelve  our  little  cabaret  till 
some  hour  when  genius  burns,  and  instead  I'll  plunge 
you  straight  into  common  frivolity,  as  though  you  were 
some  Cockney  tourist  getting  his  week-end's  worth! 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Bal  Tabarin?" 

"Never.     And  I  would  much — much  rather — " 
"No,  you  wouldn't!     I  have  spoken.     Come  along!" 
Before  Max  could  resist  he  was  swept  across  the  wide 
roadway,  round  a  corner,  and  through  what  looked  to 
him  like  the  entrance  to  a  theatre. 

There  were  many  people  gathered  about  this  entrance : 
men  in  evening  dress,  men  in  shabby,  insignificant 
clothes,  women  in  varying  types  of  costume.  Max 
would  have  lingered  to  study  the  little  crowd,  but  Blake 
looked  upon  his  hesitancy  with  distrust,  and  still  re- 
taining the  grip  upon  his  shoulder,  half  led,  half  pushed 
him  through  a  short  passage  straight  into  the  dancing- 
hall,  where  on  the  instant  his  ears  were  assailed  by  a  flood 
of  joyous  sound  in  the  form  of  a  rhythmic,  swinging 
waltz — his  eyes  blinked  before  the  flood  of  light  to  which 
the  Parisian  pins  his  faith  for  public  pleasures — and  his 
nostrils  were  assailed  by  a  penetrating  smell  of  scent  and 
smoke.  Dazed  and  a  little  frightened  he  drew  back 
against  a  wall,  overwhelmed  by  the  atmosphere.     Super- 

81 


MAX 

ficially  there  was  little  astonishing  in  the  Bal  Tabarin; 
but  to  the  uninitiated  being  with  wide  eyes  it  seemed  in 
very  truth  the  gay  world,  with  its  stirring  music,  its  walls 
flaunting  their  mirrors  and  their  paintings,  its  galleries 
with  their  palms  and  railed-in  boxes,  and  beneath — 
subtly  suggestive  adjunct — the  bars,  with  their  count- 
less bottles  of  champagne,  bottles  of  every  conceivable 
size  built  up  in  serried  rows  as  though  Venus  would  raise 
an  altar  to  Bacchus. 

Leaning  back  against  the  wall,  Max  surveyed  the 
scene,  fascinated  and  confused.  A  thousand  questions 
rose  to  his  lips,  but  not  one  found  utterance.  Again  and 
yet  again  his  bright  glance  ranged  from  the  gay  red  of  the 
bandsmen's  coats  to  the  lines  of  spectators  sitting  at  the 
little  tables  under  the  galleries,  returning  inevitably  and 
persistently  to  the  pivot  of  the  scene — a  space  of  pale- 
colored,  waxed  floor  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  where  in- 
numerable couples  whirled  or  glided  to  the  tune  of  the 
waltz. 

He  had  seen  many  a  ball  in  progress,  but  never  had 
he  seen  dancing  as  he  saw  it  here,  where  grace  rubbed 
shoulders  with  absolute  gaucherie,  and  wild  hilarity 
mingled  unashamed  with  a  curious  seriousness — one  had 
almost  said  iciness — of  demeanor.  The  women,  who 
formed  the  definite  interest  of  the  picture,  were  for  the 
most  part  young,  with  a  youth  that  lent  slimness  and 
suppleness  to  the  figure  and  permeated  through  the 
freely  used  paint  and  powder  like  some  unpurchasable 
essence.  Among  this  crowd  of  women  some  were  fair, 
some  brown,  a  few  red-haired,  but  the  vast  majority  be- 
longed to  the  type  that  was  to  become  familiar  to  Max 
as  the  true  Montmartroise — the  girl  possessed  of  the  dead 
white  face,  the  red,  sensual  lips,  the  imperfectly  chiselled 
nose,  attractive  in  its  very  imperfection,  and  the  eyes 
—black,  brown,  or  gray— that  see  in  a  single  glance  to 

82 


MAX 

the  bottom  of  a  man's  soul.  Richness  of  apparel  was 
not  conspicuous  among  them,  but  all  wore  their  clothes 
with  the  sense  of  fitness  that  possesses  the  Parisieiiuc. 
Each  head  was  held  at  the  angle  that  best  displayed  the 
well-dressed  hair  and  cleverly  trimmed  hat;  each  light 
skirt  was  held  waist-high  with  a  dexterity  that  allowed 
the  elaborate  petticoat  to  sweep  out  from  the  neat  ankles 
in  a  whirl  of  lace. 

Some  of  these  girls  danced  with  pleasure-seeking  young 
Englishmen  or  Americans  in  conventional  evening  dress, 
others  with  little  clerks  in  ill-fitting  clothes  and  bowler 
hats,  while  many  chose  each  other  for  partners,  and 
glided  over  the  waxed  floor  in  a  perfection  of  motion 
difficult  to  excel. 

Leaning  back  against  the  wall,  he  watched  the  picture, 
gaining  courage  with  familiarity,  and  unconsciously  a 
little  gasp  of  regret  parted  his  lips  as  the  waltz  crashed 
to  a  finish  and  the  dancers  moved  in  a  body  toward  the 
tables  and  the  bars.  Then  for  the  first  time  he  remem- 
bered Blake,  and,  looking  round,  saw  his  green  eyes 
fixed  upon  him  in  a  quizzical,  satirical  glance. 

"Well,  the  devil  has  a  pleasant  way  with  him,  there's 
no  denying  it!  Come  and  find  a  seat!  The  next  will 
be  one  of  the  special  dances — a  can-can  or  a  Spanish 
dance.     I'd  like  you  to  see  it." 

"Who  will  dance  it?" 

"  Who  ?  Oh,  probably,  if  it's  the  can-can,  half  a  dozen 
of  the  best-looking  of  those  girls  with  the  elaborate 
lingerie.  They're  paid  to  dance  here.  They're  part  of 
the  show." 

"I  see!"  Max  was  interested,  but  his  voice  did  not 
sound  very  certain.  "And  the  others?"  he  added. 
"That  fair  girl,  for  example,  sitting  at  the  table  with 
the  hideous,  untidy  little  man  in  the  brown  suit?" 

Blake's  eyes  sought  out  the  couple.     "What!     The 

83 


MAX 

two  smiling  into  each  other's  eyes?  Those,  my  boy,  are 
true  citizens  of  the  true  Bohemia.  She  is  probably  a 
little  dressmaker's  assistant,  whose  whole  available  cap- 
ital is  sunk  in  that  Pierrot  hat  and  those  pretty  shoes; 
and  he — well,  he  might  be  anything  with  that  queer, 
clever  head !  But  he's  probably  a  poet,  in  the  guise  of  a 
journalist,  picking  up  a  few  francs  when  he  can  and 
where  he  can.  A  precarious  existence,  but  lived  in 
Elysium!  Wish  I  were  twenty — and  unanalytical ! 
Come  along!  It's  to  be  a  Spanish  dance.  You  mustn't 
miss  it!" 

They  made  their  way  forward,  pushing  toward  the 
open  space,  upon  which  a  shaft  of  limelight  had  been 
thrown,  the  better  to  display  the  faces  and  figures  of 
eight  Spanish  women  who,  dressed  in  their  national  cos- 
tume, stood  preening  themselves  like  vain  birds,  tossing 
their  heads  and  showing  their  white  teeth  in  sudden 
smiles  of  recognition  to  their  friends  among  the  audience. 
While  Max's  interested  eyes  were  travelling  from  one 
face  to  another,  the  signal  was  given,  and  with  an  electric 
spontaneity  the  dance  began.  It  was  a  wonderful  dance 
— a  dance  of  sensuous  contortion  crossed  and  arrested  at 
every  moment  by  the  fierce  flash  of  pride,  the  swift  gest- 
ure of  contempt  indicative  of  the  land  that  had  con- 
ceived it — a  dance  that  would  diminish  to  the  merest 
sway  of  the  body  accompanied  by  the  slow,  hypnotic 
enticement  of  half-closed  eyes,  and  then,  as  a  fan  might 
shut  or  open,  leap  back  in  an  instant  to  a  barbaric  frenzy 
of  motion  in  which  loosened  hair  and  flaming  draperies 
carried  the  beholder's  senses  upon  a  tide  of  intoxica- 
tion. 

Max  was  conscious  of  quickened  heart-beats  and 
flushed  cheeks  as  the  dancers  paused  and  the  high,  shrill 
call  that  indicated  an  encore  pierced  through  the  smoke- 
laden  air;  and  without  question  he  turned  and  followed 

84 


MAX 

Blake  to  one  of  the  many  tables  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  the  galleries. 

The  table  was  packed  tightly  between  other  tables, 
and  in  the  moment  of  intoxication  he  had  no  glance  to 
spare  for  his  neighbors.  Even  Blake's  voice  when  it 
came  to  him  sounded  far  away  and  impersonal. 

"Sit  down,  boy!     What  will  you  drink?" 

"What  you  drink,  mon  ami,  I  will  drink." 

He  sat  down  and,  with  a  new  exuberance,  threw  him- 
self back  in  his  seat.  It  was  a  moment  of  bravado  that 
reckoned  not  at  all  with  circumstance;  his  gesture  was 
imperiously  reckless,  the  space  about  him  was  crowded 
to  suffocation ;  by  a  natural  sequence  of  events  his  head 
came  into  sharp  contact  with  the  waving  plumes  of  a  hat 
at  the  table  behind  him. 

With  volubility  and  dispatch  the  owner  of  the  hat 
expressed  her  opinion  of  his  awkwardness;  one  or  two 
people  near  them  laughed,  and,  flushing  a  desperate  red, 
he  turned,  raised  his  hat,  and  offered  an  apology. 

The  possessor  of  the  feathers  was  a  woman  of  thirty 
who  looked  ten  years  older  than  her  age ;  her  face  was 
unhealthily  pale  even  beneath  its  mask  of  powder,  and 
her  eyes  were  curiously  lifeless,  but  her  clothes  were 
costly  and  her  figure  fine,  if  a  trifle  robust.  At  sound 
of  the  boy's  voice  she  turned.  Her  movement  was  slow 
and  deliberate;  her  gaze,  in  which  a  dull  resentment 
smouldered,  passed  over  his  confused,  flushed  face,  and 
rested  upon  Blake's;  then  a  light,  if  light  it  might  be 
called,  glimmered  in  her  eyes,  and  her  immobile  face 
relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"  'Alio,  mon  chert  But  I  thought  you  had  dropped 
out  of  life!" 

The  boy,  with  a  startled  movement,  turned  his  eyes 
on  Blake;  but  Blake  was  smiling  at  the  woman  with  the 
same  pleasant  smile — half  humorous,   half  satirical — ■ 

85 


MAX 

that  he  had  bestowed  dispassionately  upon  the  young 
Englishman  in  the  train  the  night  before,  and  upon  the 
little  cafe  proprietress  of  the  rue  Fabert — the  smile  that 
all  his  life  had  been  a  passport  to  the  world's  byways. 

"What!  you,  Lize!"  he  was  saying  easily,  and  with 
only  the  faintest  shadow  of  surprise.  "  Well,  if  I  have 
been  dead,  I  am  now  resurrected!  Let's  toast  old  times, 
since  you  are  alone.     Garcon!     Gar c on!" 

Out  of  the  crowd  a  waiter  answered  his  call.  Wine 
was  brought,  three  glasses  were  brought  and  filled,  while 
Max  watched  the  performance — watched  the  ease  and 
naturalness  of  it  with  absorbed  wonder. 

"Lize,"  said  Blake,  as  the  waiter  disappeared,  "my 
friend  who  dared  to  interfere  with  that  marvellous  hat 
is  called  Max.     Won't  you  smile  upon  him  ?" 

Max  blushed  again,  he  could  not  have  told  why,  and 
the  lady  smiled — a  vague,  detached  smile. 

"A  pretty  boy!"  she  said.  "He  ought  to  have  been 
a  woman."  Then,  sensible  of  having  discharged  her 
duty,  she  turned  again  to  Blake. 

"  And  the  world,  mon  chert     It  has  been  kind  to  you  ?" 

Blake  laughed  and  drank  some  of  his  wine.  "  Oh,  I 
can't  complain !  If  it  isn't  quite  the  same  world  that  it 
was,  the  fault's  in  me.  I'm  getting  old,  Lize!  Eight- 
and-thirty  come  next  March!" 

A  palpable  chill  touched  the  woman;  she  shivered, 
then  laughed  a  little  hysterically,  and  finished  her  wine. 

"Ssh!     Ssh!     Don't  say  such  things!" 

Blake  refilled  her  glass.  "  I  was  jesting.  A  man  is  as 
old  as  he  feels;  a  woman — "  He  lifted  his  own  glass 
and  smiled  into  her  eyes  with  a  certain  kindliness  of 
understanding.  "Come,  Lize!  The  old  times  aren't  so 
far  behind  us !  'Twas  only  yesterday  that  Jacques  Aujet 
painted  you  as  the  Bacchante  in  his  '  Masque  of  Folly.' 
Do  you  remember  how  angry  you  were  when  he  used  to 

86 


MAX 

kiss  you,  and  the  grape  juice  used  to  run  into  your  hair 
and  down  your  neck?     Why,  'twas  hardly  yesterday!" 

The  woman  looked  down,  and  for  a  moment  a  shadow 
seemed  to  rest  upon  her — a  something  tangible  and  even 
fearful,  that  lent  to  her  mask-like  face  a  momentary 
humanity. 

" Monami,"  she  said,  in  a  toneless  voice,  "do  you  re- 
member that  Jacques  is  ten  years  dead?" 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  fleeing  from  her  own  fear,  she 
looked  up  again,  surfeiting  her  senses  with  the  crowds, 
the  lights,  the  smoke  and  scent  and  crashing  music. 

"But  what  folly!"  she  cried.  "Life  goes  on!  The 
same  round,  is  it  not  so?  Life  and  love  and  jealousy! 
Come,  little  monsieur,  what  have  you  to  say?" 

She  turned  to  Max,  sitting  silent  and  attentive;  but 
even  as  she  turned,  there  was  a  flutter  of  interest  among 
the  tables  behind  her,  and  a  young  girl  ran  up,  laying  her 
hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Lize!"  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp.  "Lize!  He  is 
here — and  I  am  afraid." 

Max  looked  up.  It  was  the  girl  he  had  pointed  out  to 
Blake  as  sitting  at  the  table  with  the  ugly,  clever-looking 
man;  and  his  eyes  opened  wide  in  fresh  surprise,  fresh  in- 
terest as  he  studied  the  details  of  her  appearance.  She 
was  of  that  most  attractive  type,  the  fair  Parisienne;  her 
complexion  was  of  wax-like  paleness,  her  blonde  hair 
broke  into  little  waves  and  tendrils  under  her  Pierrot  hat, 
while  her  eyes,  clear  and  blue,  proclaimed  her  extreme 
youth.  As  she  stood  now,  clinging  to  the  elder  woman's 
arm,  her  mind  showed  itself  in  an  utter  naturalness,  an 
utter  disregard  of  the  fact  that  she  was  observed.  Max 
remembered  Blake's  words — "These  are  true  citizens  of 
the  true  Bohemia." 

But  the  woman  Lize  had  turned  at  her  cry,  and  laid 
a  plump,  jewelled  hand  over  her  slim,  nervous  fingers. 

87 


MAX 

"Jacqueline!     My  child,  what  is  wrong?" 

"  He  is  here !     And  Lucien  is  here !     And  I  am  afraid !" 

The  words  were  vague,  but  the  elder  woman  asked  for 
no  explanation. 

"Does  Lucien  know?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"And  this  beast — where  is  he?" 

The  girl,  silent  from  emotional  excitement,  nodded 
toward  the  opposite  bar,  and  a  light  flickered  up  into 
Lize's  eyes  as  she  scanned  the  crowd  divided  from  them 
by  the  space  of  waxed  floor,  from  which  the  Spanish 
dancers  had  just  retreated. 

Max  raised  his  glass  and  drank  some  of  his  champagne. 
His  first  dread  of  the  place  was  gripping  him  again — 
exciting  him,  confusing  him.  All  about  him,  like  the 
scent-laden  atmosphere  itself,  moved  the  crowd — the 
girls  of  Montmartre  and  their  cavaliers.  Everywhere 
was  that  sense  of  conscious  enjoyment — that  grasping 
of  the  mere  moment  that  the  Parisian  has  reduced  to  a 
science.  It  enveloped  him  like  a  veil — the  artless  arti- 
ficiality of  Paris!  Everywhere  fans  emblazoned  with 
the  words  Bal  Tabarin  fluttered  like  butterflies,  every- 
where cigar  smoke  mingled  with  the  essences  from  the 
women's  clothes,  but  beneath  it  all  lurked  a  something 
unanalyzed,  dimly  understood,  that  chained  his  imagi- 
nation. It  hung  about  him;  it  crouched  behind  the 
women's  expectant  eyes;  then  suddenly  it  sprang  forth 
like  an  ugly  beast  into  a  perfumed  garden. 

It  came  in  a  moment:  a  little  scuffle  at  the  bar  oppo- 
site, as  a  heavy,  fair-bearded  man  disengaged  himself 
from  the  crowd  about  him,  a  little  flutter  of  interest  as 
he  made  an  unsteady  way  across  the  waxed  floor,  a 
little  smothered  scream  from  the  girl  as  he  lurched  up  to 
the  table  and  paused,  gazing  at  her  with  angry,  bloodshot 
eyes. 

88 


MAX 

For  a  second  of  silence  the  two  looked  at  each  other 
— the  girl  with  a  frightened,  fascinated  gaze,  the  man 
with  the  slow  insolence  that  drink  induces.  At  last, 
muttering  some  words  in  a  guttural  tongue  unknown 
to  the  boy,  he  swayed  forward  and  laid  a  heavy  red  hand 
upon  her  shoulder. 

The  gesture  was  brutal,  masterful,  expressive.  A 
sense  of  mental  sickness  seized  upon  Max;  while  the 
woman  Lize  suddenly  braced  herself,  changing  from  the 
inert,  half-hypnotized  creature  of  a  moment  before  into 
a  being  of  fury. 

" Sapristi!"  she  cried  aloud.  "A  pretty  lover  to 
come  wooing!"  And  she  added  a  phrase  that  had  never 
found  place  in  Max's  vocabulary,  and  at  which  the  sur- 
rounding people  laughed. 

The  words  and  the  laugh  were  tow  to  the  fire  of  the 
man's  rage.  He  freed  the  girl's  arm  and  struck  the  table 
with  a  resounding  violence  that  made  the  glasses  dance. 

It  was  the  signal  for  a  scene.  In  a  second  people  at 
the  neighboring  tables  rose  to  their  feet,  chairs  were  over- 
turned, a  torrent  of  words  poured  forth  from  both  actors 
and  spectators,  while  through  everything  and  above 
everything  the  band  poured  forth  an  intoxicating  waltz. 

Max,  forgetful  of  himself,  stood  with  wide  eyes  and 
white,  absorbed  face.  He  saw  the  climax  of  the  scene — 
saw  the  bearded  man  lean  across  the  table  and  seize  the 
girl  by  the  waist — saw,  to  his  breathless  amazement,  the 
woman  Lize  suddenly  grasp  the  champagne  bottle  and 
fling  it  full  into  his  face;  then,  abruptly,  out  of  the  maze 
of  sensations,  he  felt  some  one  grip  him  by  the  shoulder 
and  march  him  straight  through  the  crowd,  into  the 
vestibule,  on  into  the  open  air. 

Outside,  in  the  glare  of  the  lights,  in  the  cold  fresh 
air  of  the  street,  he  turned,  white  and  shaking,  upon 
Blake. 

89 


MAX 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  he  demanded.  "I  think  you 
were  a  coward!     I  would  not  have  run  away!" 

Blake  laughed,  though  his  own  voice  was  a  little  un- 
even, his  own  face  looked  a  little  pale.  "  There  are  some 
battle-fields,  boy,  where  discretion  is  obviously  the  better 
part  of  valor!  I'm  sorry  I  brought  you  here,  though 
they  generally  manage  to  avoid  this  sort  of  thing." 

Max  still  looked  indignant. 

"  But  she  was  a  friend  of  yours!" 

"A  friend!     My  God!" 

"  But  she  called  you  her  friend!" 

"Friendship  is  a  much-defaced  coin  that  poverty- 
stricken  humanity  will  always  pass!  Our  friendship, 
boy,  consists  in  the  fact  that  she  once  loved  and  was 
loved  by  a  man  I  knew.  Poor  Lize !  She  had  a  bit  too 
much  heart  for  the  game  she  played.  And  the  heart  is 
there  still,  for  all  the  paint  and  powder  and  morphine 
she  fights  the  world  with !     Poor  Lize !" 

Max's  eyes  were  still  wide,  but  the  anger  had  died 
down. 

"And  the  girl?"  he  questioned.  "The  girl,  and  the 
brute,  and  the  man  with  the  clever  head  ?  What  have 
they  all  to  do  with  each  other  and  with  her?" 

Blake's  lips  parted  to  reply,  but  closed  again. 

"Never  mind,  boy!"  he  said,  gently.  "Come  along 
back  to  your  hotel;  you've  seen  enough  life  for  one 
night." 


CHAPTER  X 

WITH  a  new  day  began  a  new  epoch.  On  the 
morning  following  the  night  of  first  adventure  Max 
woke  in  his  odd,  mountainous  bed  at  the  Hotel  Railleux 
kindling  to  fresh  and  definite  sensations.  In  a  manner 
miraculously  swift,  miraculously  smooth  and  subtle,  he 
had  discovered  a  niche  in  this  strange  city,  and  had 
elected  to  fit  himself  to  it.  A  knowledge  of  present,  a 
pledge  of  future  interests  seemed  to  permeate  the  atmos- 
phere, and  he  rose  and  dressed  with  the  grave  delibera- 
tion of  the  being  who  sees  his  way  clear  before  him. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  entered  the  salle-a-manger, 
and  one  sharp  glance  brought  the  satisfying  conviction 
that  it  was  deserted  save  for  the  presence  of  the  assiduous 
young  waiter,  who  came  hurrying  forward  as  though  no 
span  of  hours  and  incidents  separated  yesterday's  meal 
from  to-day's. 

His  attentive  attitude  was  unrelaxed,  his  smile  was  as 
deferential  as  before,  but  this  morning  he  found  a  less 
responsive  guest.  Max  was  filled  with  a  quiet  assurance 
that  debarred  familiarity;  Max,  in  fine,  was  bound  upon 
a  quest,  and  the  submissive  young  waiter,  the  bare  eating- 
room,  Paris  itself,  formed  but  the  setting  and  background 
in  his  arrogant  young  mind  to  the  greatness  of  the 
mission. 

The  thought — the  small  seed  of  thought — that  was 
responsible  for  the  idea  had  been  sown  last  night,  as  he 
leaned  over  the  parapet  fronting  the  Sacre-Cceur,  looking 

9i 


MAX 

down  upon  the  city  with  its  tangle  of  lights;  and  later, 
in  the  hours  of  darkness,  when  he  had  tossed  on  his 
heavy  bed,  too  excited  to  lure  sleep,  it  had  fructified  with 
strange  rapidity,  growing  and  blossoming  with  morning 
into  definite  resolve. 

He  drank  his  coffee  and  ate  his  roll  in  happy  preoccu- 
pation, and,  having  finished  his  meal,  left  the  room  and 
went  quietly  down  the  stairs  and  through  the  glass  door 
of  the  hotel. 

The  frost  still  held;  Paris  still  smiled;  and,  button- 
ing up  his  coat,  he  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  doorstep 
to  turn  his  face  to  the  copper-red  sun  and  breathe  in  the 
crisp,  invigorating  air;  then,  with  a  quaintly  decisive 
manner  that  seemed  to  set  sentiment  aside,  he  walked 
to  the  edge  of  the  footpath  and  hailed  a  passing  fiacre. 

"To  the  church  of  the  Sacre-Cceur,"  he  commanded. 

The  cocker  received  the  order  with  a  grumble,  looked 
from  his  unreliable  horse  to  the  frosty  roadway,  and  was 
about  to  shake  his  head  in  definite  negation  when  Max 
cajoled  him  with  a  more  ingratiating  voice. 

'The  rue  Ronsard,  then?     Will  you  take  me  to  the 
corner  of  the  rue  Ronsard?" 

The  man  grumbled  again,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
until  his  ears  disappeared  in  the  shaggy  depths  of  his 
fur  cape;  but,  when  all  hope  seemed  fled,  he  laconically 
murmured  the  one  word  "Bon!"  whipped  up  his  horse, 
and  started  off  with  a  fine  disregard  of  whether  his  fare 
had  taken  his  seat  or  been  left  behind  upon  the  footpath. 

To  those  who  know  Montmartre  only  as  an  abode  of 
night — a  place  of  light  and  laughter  and  folly — Mont- 
martre in  the  day,  Montmartre  at  half-past  nine  in  the 
morning,  comes  as  a  revelation.  The  whole  picture  is 
as  a  coin  reversed.  The  theatres,  the  music-halls,  the 
cabarets  all  lie  with  closed  eyes,  innocently  sleeping ;  the 
population  of  pleasure -seekers    and    pleasure -mongers 

Q2 


MAX 

has  disappeared  as  completely  as  if  some  magician  had 
waved  his  wand,  and  in  its  place  the  streets  teem  with 
the  worker — the  early,  industrious  shopkeeper  and  the 
householder  bent  upon  a  profitable  morning's  marketing. 
Max,  gazing  from  the  fiacre  with  attentive  eyes,  followed 
the  varying  scenes,  while  his  horse  wound  a  careful  and 
laborious  way  up  the  cobble-paved  streets,  and  noted 
with  an  artist's  eye  the  black,  hurrying  figures  of  the 
men,  cloaked  and  hooded  against  the  cold,  and  the 
black,  homely  figures  of  the  women,  silhouetted  against 
the  sharp  greens  and  yellows  of  the  laden  vegetable 
stalls  at  which  they  chattered  and  bargained. 

It  was  all  noisy,  interesting,  alive ;  and  as  he  watched 
the  pleasant,  changing  pictures,  his  courage  strengthened, 
his  belief  in  his  own  star  mounted  higher ;  the  decision  of 
last  night  stood  out,  as  so  few  nocturnal  decisions  can 
stand  out,  unashamed  and  justified  in  the  light  of  day. 

At  the  corner  where  the  rue  Andre  de  Sarte  joins  the 
rue  Ronsard  he  dismissed  his  cab,  and  with  a  young  in- 
quisitiveness  in  all  that  concerned  the  quarter,  paused 
to  look  into  the  old  curio  shop,  no  longer  closed  as  on  the 
previous  night,  but  open  and  inviting  in  its  dingy  sug- 
gestion of  mysteries  unsolved. 

Now — at  this  moment  of  recording  the  boy's  doings — 
the  curio  shop  no  longer  exists  at  the  corner  of  the  rue 
Andre  de  Sarte;  it  has  faded  into  the  unknown  with 
its  coppers  and  brasses,  its  silver  and  tinsel,  its  woollen 
and  silk  stuffs ;  but  on  that  January  morning  of  his  first 
coming  it  still  held  place,  its  musty  perfumes  still  con- 
jured dreams,  its  open  doorway,  festooned  with  antique 
objects,  still  offered  tempting  glimpses  into  the  long  and 
dim  interior,  where  an  old  Jew,  presiding  genius  of  the 
place,  lurkedlike  a  spider  inthe  innermost  circle  of  his  web. 

Max  lingered,  drawn  into  self-forgetfulness  by  the 
blending  of  faded  hues,  the  atmosphere  of  must  and 
7  93 


MAX 

spices,  the  air  of  age  indescribable  that  veiled  the  place. 
He  loitered  about  the  windows,  peeped  in  at  the  doorway, 
would  even  have  ventured  across  the  threshold  had  not 
a  ponderous  figure,  rising  silently  from  a  heap  of  cushions 
upon  the  floor  of  the  inmost  room,  sent  him  hastening 
round  the  corner,  guiltily  conscious  that  it  was  new 
lamps  and  not  old  he  was  here  to  light. 

The  interest  of  his  mission  flowed  back,  sharpened  by 
the  momentary  break,  and  it  was  with  very  swift  steps 
that  he  ran  up  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie  to  the  rue 
Muller;  there,  in  the  rue  Muller,  he  paused,  his  back  to 
the  green  plantation,  his  face  to  the  row  of  houses  rising 
one  above  the  other,  each  with  its  open  doorway,  each 
with  its  front  of  brick  and  plaster,  its  iron  balcony  from 
which  hung  the  inevitable  array  of  blankets,  rugs,  and 
mattresses  absorbing  the  morning  air. 

To  say  that,  in  the  mystic  silence  of  the  previous  night 
and  restless  hours  of  the  dawn,  Max  had  vowed  to  him- 
self that  here  in  the  rue  Muller  he  would  make  a  home, 
and  to  add  that,  coming  in  the  light  of  day,  he  found  a 
door  open  to  him,  sounds  at  the  least  fabulous;  yet,  as 
he  stood  there — eager,  alert,  with  face  lifted  expectantly, 
and  bright  gaze  winging  to  right  and  left — fable  was 
made  fact:  the  legend  'Appartement  a  louer'  caught  his 
glance  like  a  pronouncement  of  fate. 

It  sounds  fabulous,  it  sounds  preposterous,  and  yet  it 
obtains,  to  be  accounted  for  only  by  the  fact  that  in 
this  curious  world  there  are  certain  beings  to  whom  it  is 
given  to  say  of  all  things  with  naive  faith,  not  '  I  shall 
seek,'  but '  I  shall  find.' 

Max  had  never  doubted  that,  if  courage  were  high 
enough  to  undertake  the  quest,  absolute  success  awaited 
him.  He  read  the  legend  again,  '  Appartement  a  louer 
5'""'  etage.  Gaz:  I'eau,'  and  without  hesitation  crossed 
the  rue  Muller  and  passed  through  the  open  door. 

94 


MAX 

The  difference  was  vast  between  his  nervous  entry 
thirty-six  hours  ago  into  the  Hotel  Railleux  and  the  bold- 
ness of  his  step  now.  The  difference  between  secret 
night  and  candid  morning  lay  in  the  two  proceedings — 
the  difference  between  self-distrust  and  self-confidence. 
Then  he  had  been  a  creature  newly  created,  looking  upon 
himself  and  all  the  world  with  a  sensitive  distrust; 
now  he  was  an  individual  accepted  of  others,  assured 
of  himself,  already  beginning  to  move  and  have  his 
being  in  happy  self-forgetfulness. 

He  stepped  into  the  hallway  of  the  strange  house  and 
paused  to  look  about  him,  his  only  emotion  a  keen  in- 
terest that  kept  every  nerve  alert.  The  hallway  round 
which  he  looked  displayed  no  original  features:  it  was 
a  lofty,  rather  narrow  space,  the  walls  of  which — painted 
to  resemble  marble — were  defaced  by  time,  by  the  pass- 
ing of  many  skirts  and  the  rubbing  of  many  shoulders. 
In  the  rear  was  a  second  door,  composed  of  glass,  and 
beyond  it  the  suggestion  of  a  staircase  of  polished  oak 
that  sprang  upward  from  the  dingy  floor  in  a  surprising 
beauty  of  panelled  dado  and  fine  old  banister. 

Max's  eyes  rested  upon  this  staircase:  in  renewed  ex- 
citement he  hurried  down  the  hall  and,  regardless  of  the 
consequence,  beat  a  quick  tattoo  with  his  knuckles  upon 
the  glass  door. 

Silence  greeted  his  imperative  summons,  and  as  he 
waited,  listening  intently,  he  became  aware  of  the  mo- 
notonous hum  of  a  sewing-machine  coming  through  a 
closed  door  upon  his  left. 

The  knowledge  of  a  human  presence  emboldened  him ; 
again  he  knocked,  this  time  more  sharply,  more  per- 
sistently. Again  inattention ;  then,  as  he  lifted  his  hand 
for  the  third  time,  the  hum  of  the  machine  ceased 
abruptly,  the  door  opened,  and  he  turned  to  confront  a 
small  woman  with  wispy  hair  and  untidy  clothes,  whose 

95 


MAX 

bodice  was  adorned  with  innumerable  pins,  and  at  whose 
side  hung  a  pair  of  scissors  large  as  shears. 

"Monsieur?"  Her  manner  was  curt — the  manner  of 
one  who  has  been  disturbed  at  some  engrossing  occu- 
pation. 

Max  felt  rebuffed;  he  raised  his  hat  and  bowed  with 
as  close  an  imitation  as  he  could  summon  of  Blake's 
ingratiating  friendliness. 

"Madame,  you  have  an  appartement  to  let?" 

"  True,  monsieur!  An  appartement  on  the  fifth  floor — 
gas  and  water."  There  was  pride  in  the  last  words,  if 
a  grudging  pride. 

"  Precisely!     And  it  is  a  good  appartement?" 

"  No  better  in  Montmartre." 

"A  sufficiency  of  light?" 

'Light?'  The  woman  smiled  in  scorn.  'Was  it  not 
open  to  the  skies — with  those  two  windows  in  front,  and 
that  balcony?' 

Max's  excitement  kindled. 

"  Madame,  I  must  see  this  appartement !  May  I  mount 
now — at  once?" 

But  the  matter  was  no  such  light  one.  Madame  shook 
her  head.     '  Ah,  that  was  not  possible !' 

'Why  not?' 

'  Ah,  well,  there  was  the  concierge!  The  concierge  was 
out.' 

'  But  the  concierge  would  return  ?' 

'Oh  yes!     It  was  true  he  would  return!' 

The  little  woman  cast  a  wistful  eye  on  the  door  of  her 
own  room. 

'  At  what  hour  ?' 

'  Ah !    That  was  a  question !' 

'  This  morning  ?' 

'Possibly!' 

'This  afternoon?' 

96 


MAX 

•Possibly!' 

'But  not  for  a  certainty?' 

'Nothing  was  entirely  certain.' 

Anger  broke  through  Max's  disappointment.  With- 
out a  word  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  down  the 
hall  with  the  air  of  an  offended  prince. 

The  woman  watched  him  with  an  expressionless  face 
until  he  reached  the  door,  then  something — perhaps  his 
youth,  perhaps  his  brave  carriage,  perhaps  his  defiant 
disappointment — moved  her. 

"  Monsieur!"  she  called. 

He  stopped. 

"  Monsieur,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you  see 
the  appartement — " 

"It  is.     Absolutely  necessary."     Max  ran  back. 

"  Then,  monsieur,  I  will  conduct  you  up-stairs." 

The  suggestion  was  greedily  seized  upon.  This  ap- 
partement on  the  fifth  floor  had  grown  in  value  with  each 
moment  of  denial. 

"Thank  you,  madame,  a  thousand  times!" 

"Shall  we  mount?" 

"On  the  moment,  if  you  will." 

Through  the  glass  door  they  went,  and  up  the  stairs, 
mounting  higher  and  ever  higher  in  an  unbroken  silence. 
Half  way  up  each  flight  of  stairs  there  was  a  window 
through  which  the  light  fell  upon  the  bare  oak  steps, 
proving  them  to  be  spotless  and  polished  as  the  floor  of 
a  convent.  It  was  an  unexpected  quality,  this  rigid 
cleanliness,  and  the  boy  acknowledged  it  with  a  mute 
and  deep  satisfaction. 

Upon  each  landing  were  two  doors — closed  doors  that 
sturdily  guarded  whatever  of  secrecy  might  lie  behind, 
and  at  each  of  these  silent  portals  Max  glanced  with  that 
intent  and  searching  look  that  one  bestows  upon  objects 
that  promise  to  become  intertwined  with  one's  daily 

97 


MAX 

life.  At  last  the  ascent  was  made,  the  goal  reached,  and 
he  paused  on  the  last  step  of  the  stairs  to  survey  the 
coveted  fifth  floor. 

It  was  as  bare,  as  scrupulously  clean  as  were  the  other 
landings ;  but  his  quick  glance  noted  that  while  the  door 
upon  the  left  was  plain  and  unadorned  as  the  others  he 
had  passed,  that  upon  the  right  bore  a  small  brass  plate 
engraved  with  the  name  '  L.  Salas.' 

This,  then,  was  his  possible  neighbor!  He  scanned  the 
name  attentively. 

"This  is  the  fifth  floor,  madame?" 

"The  fifth  floor,  monsieur!"  Without  ceremony  the 
little  woman  went  forward  and,  to  his  astonishment, 
rapped  sharply  upon  the  door  with  the  brass  plate. 

Max  started.  "  Madame !  The  appartement  is  not 
occupied?" 

The  only  reply  that  came  to  him  was  the  opening  of 
the  door  by  an  inch  or  two  and  the  hissing  whisper  of  a 
conversation  of  which  he  caught  no  word.  Then  the  lady 
of  the  scissors  looked  round  upon  him,  and  the  door  closed. 

"One  moment,  monsieur,  while  madame  throws  on  a 
garment!" 

A  sudden  loss  of  nerve,  a  sudden  desire  for  flight  seized 
upon  Max.  He  had  mounted  the  stairs  anticipating  the 
viewing  of  empty  rooms,  and  now  he  was  confronted  with 
a  furnished  and  inhabited  appartement,  and  commanded 
to  wait  'while  madame  threw  on  a  garment'!  A  hun- 
dred speculations  crowded  to  his  mind.  Into  what  milieu 
was  he  about  to  be  hurled  ?  What  sordid  morning  scene 
was  he  about  to  witness  ?  In  a  strange  confusion  of  ideas, 
the  white  face  of  the  woman  Lize  sprang  to  his  imagina- 
tion, coupled  with  the  memory  of  the  empty  champagne 
bottle  and  the  -battered  tray  of  the  first  night  at  the 
Hdtel  Railleux.  A  deadly  sensitiveness  oppressed  him; 
he  turned  sharply  to  his  guide. 

98 


MAX 

"Madame!  Madame!  It  is  an  altogether  unreason- 
able hour  to  intrude — " 

The  reopening  of  the  door  on  the  right  checked  him, 
and  a  gentle  voice  broke  across  his  words : 

"Now,  madame,  if  you  will!" 

He  turned,  his  heart  still  beating  quickly,  and  a  sud- 
den shame  at  his  own  thoughts — a  sudden  relief  so  strong 
as  almost  to  be  painful — surged  through  him. 

The  open  door  revealed  a  woman  of  forty-five,  per- 
haps of  fifty,  clothed  in  a  meagre  black  skirt  and  a  plain 
linen  wrapper  of  exquisite  cleanliness.  It  was  this  clean- 
liness that  struck  the  note  of  her  personality — that  fitted 
her  as  a  garment,  accentuating  the  quiet  austerity  of  her 
thin  figure,  the  streaks  of  gray  in  her  brown  hair,  the  pale 
face  marked  with  suffering  and  sympathy  and  repression. 

With  an  instinctive  deference  the  boy  bared  his  head. 

"  Madame,"  he  stammered,  "  I  apologize  profoundly 
for  my  intrusion  at  such  an  hour." 

"Do  not  apologize,  monsieur.  Enter,  if  you  will!" 
She  drew  back,  smiling  a  little,  and  making  him  welcome 
by  a  simple  gesture.  "  We  are  anxious,  I  assure  you,  to 
find  a  tenant  for  the  appartement;  my  husband's  health 
is  not  what  it  was,  and  we  find  it  necessary  to  move  into 
the  country." 

He  followed  her  into  a  tiny  hall ;  and  with  her  fingers 
on  the  handle  of  an  inner  door,  she  looked  at  him  again 
in  her  gentle,  self-possessed  way. 

"You  will  excuse  my  husband,  monsieur!  He  is  an 
invalid  and  cannot  rise  from  his  chair." 

She  opened  the  inner  door,  and  Max  found  himself  in 
a  bedroom,  plain  in  furniture  and  without  adornment, 
but  possessing  a  large  window,  the  full  light  from  which 
was  falling  with  pathetic  vividness  on  the  shrunken 
figure  and  wan,  expressionless  face  of  a  very  old  man 
who  sat  huddled  in  a  shabby  leathern  arm-chair.     This 

99 


MAX 

arm-chair  had  been  drawn  to  the  window  to  catch  the 
wintry  sun,  and  pathos  unspeakable  lay  in  the  contrasts 
of  the  picture — the  eternal  youth  in  the  cold,  dancing 
beams — the  waste,  the  frailty  of  human  things  in  the 
inert  figure,  the  dim  eyes,  the  folded,  twitching  hands. 

The  old  man  looked  up  as  the  little  party  entered,  and 
his  eyes  sought  his  wife's  with  a  mute,  appealing  glance ; 
then,  with  a  slight  confusion,  he  turned  to  Max,  and  his 
shaking  hand  went  up  instinctively  to  the  old  black  skull- 
cap that  covered  his  head. 

"  He  wishes  to  greet  you,  monsieur,  but  he  has  not  the 
strength."  The  woman's  voice  dropped  to  tenderness, 
and  she  stooped  and  arranged  the  rug  about  the  shrunken 
knees.  "  If  you  will  come  this  way,  I  will  show  you  the 
salon." 

She  moved  quietly  forward,  opening  a  second  door. 

"  You  see,  monsieur,  it  is  all  very  convenient.  In 
summer  you  can  throw  the  windows  open  and  pass  from 
one  room  to  the  other  by  way  of  the  balcony." 

She  moved  from  the  bedroom  into  the  salon  as  she 
spoke,  Max  and  the  lady  of  the  pins  following. 

"See,  monsieur!     It  is  quite  a  good  room." 

Max,  still  subdued  by  the  vision  of  age,  went  forward 
silently,  but  as  he  entered  this  second  room  irrepressible 
surprise  possessed  him.  Here  was  an  atmosphere  he 
had  not  anticipated.  A  soft,  if  faded,  carpet  covered  the 
floor;  a  fine  old  buffet  stood  against  the  wall;  antique 
carved  chairs  were  drawn  up  to  a  massive  table  that  had 
obviously  known  more  spacious  surroundings;  while 
upon  the  walls,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  were  pictures — 
pictures  of  all  sizes,  pictures  obviously  from  the  same 
hand,  on  the  heavy  gold  frames  of  which  the  name 
'L.  Salas'  stood  out  conspicuously  in  proof  of  former 
publicity. 

"  Madame!"     He  turned  to  the  sad-faced  woman,  the 

IOO 


MAX 

enthusiasm  of  a  fellow  -  craftsman  instantly  kindled. 
"Madame!     You  are  an  artist?     This  is  your  work?" 

The  woman  caught  the  sympathy,  caught  the  fire  of 
interest,  and  a  faint  flush  warmed  her  cheek. 

"Alas,  no,  monsieur!  I  am  not  artistic.  It  is  my 
husband  who  is  the  creator  of  these."  She  waved  her 
hand  proudly  toward  the  walls.  "  My  husband  is  an 
artist." 

"A  renowned  artist!" 

It  was  the  woman  of  the  pins  and  scissors  who  spoke, 
surprising  Max,  not  by  the  sudden  sound  of  her  voice, 
but  by  her  sudden  warmth  of  feeling.  Again  Blake's 
words  came  back — 'These  are  the  true  citizens  of  the 
true  Bohemia!' — and  he  looked  curiously  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  women,  so  utterly  apart  in  station,  in 
education,  in  ideals,  yet  bound  by  a  common  respect  for 
art. 

"  It  is  my  loss,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  that  I  did  not,  until 
to-day,  know  of  M.  Salas." 

"  But  no,  monsieur !  What  would  you  know  of  twenty 
years  ago?  It  is  true  that  then  my  husband  had  a 
reputation;  but,  alas,  time  moves  quickly — and  the 
world  is  for  the  young!" 

She  smiled  again,  gently  and  patiently,  and  a  sudden 
desire  seized  Max  to  lift  and  kiss  one  of  her  thin,  work- 
worn  hands.  The  whole  pitiful  story  of  a  vogue  out- 
lived, of  a  generation  pushed  aside,  breathed  in  the 
silence  of  these  fifth-floor  rooms. 

"  They  must  be  a  great  pride  to  you,  madame — these 
pictures." 

"These,  monsieur — and  the  fact  that  he  is  still  with 
me.  We  can  dispense  with  anything  save  the  being  we 
love — is  it  not  so  ?  But  I  must  not  detain  you,  talking 
of  myself!  The  other  rooms  are  still  to  see!  This,  mon- 
sieur, is  our  second  bedroom !     And  this  the  kitchen !" 

IOI 


MAX 

Max,  following  her  obediently,  took  one  peep  into  what 
was  evidently  her  own  bedroom — a  tiny  apartment  of 
rigid  simplicity,  in  which  a  narrow  bed,  with  a  large 
black  crucifix  hanging  above  it,  seemed  the  only  furni- 
ture, and  passed  on  into  the  kitchen,  a  room  scarce 
larger  than  a  cupboard,  in  which  a  gas-stove  and  a 
water-tap  promised  future  utility. 

"See,  monsieur!  Everything  is  very  convenient.  All 
things  are  close  at  hand  for  cooking,  and  the  light  is 
good.  And  now,  perhaps,  you  would  wish  to  pass  back 
into  the  salon  and  step  out  upon  the  balcony?" 

Still  silent,  still  preoccupied,  he  assented,  and  they 
passed  into  the  room  so  eloquent  of  past  hours  and 
dwindled  fortunes. 

"  See,  monsieur !  The  view  is  wonderful !  Not  to-day, 
perhaps,  for  the  frost  blurs  the  distances;  but  in  the 
spring — a  little  later  in  the  year — " 

Crossing  the  room,  she  opened  the  long  French  window 
and  stepped  out  upon  the  narrow  iron  balcony. 

Max  followed,  and,  moving  to  her  side,  stood  gazing 
down  upon  the  city  of  his  dreams.  For  long  he  stood 
absorbed  in  thought,  then  he  turned  and  looked  frankly 
into  her  face. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  softly,  "it  is  a  place  of  miracle. 
It  is  here  that  I  shall  live." 

She  smiled.  She  had  served  an  apprenticeship  in  the 
reading  of  the  artist's  heart — the  child's  heart. 

"  Yes,  monsieur?     You  will  live  here?" 

"As  soon,  madame,  as  it  suits  you  to  vacate  the 
appartement." 

Again  she  smiled,  gently,  indulgently.  "  And  may  I 
ask,  monsieur,  whether  you  have  ascertained  the  figure 
of  the  rent?" 

"  No,  madame." 

"  And  is  not  that — pardon  me! — a  little  improvident?" 

102 


MAX 

Max  laughed.  "Probably,  madame!  But  if  it  de- 
manded my  last  franc  I  would  give  that  last  franc  with 
an  open  heart,  so  greatly  do  I  desire  the  place." 

The  quiet  eyes  of  the  woman  softened  to  a  gentle 
comprehension. 

"You  are  an  artist,  monsieur." 

The  color  leaped  into  the  boy's  face,  his  eyes  flashed 
with  triumph. 

"Madame,  how  did  you  guess?" 

"  It  is  no  guessing,  monsieur.  You  tell  me  with  every 
word." 

"Ah,  madame,  I  thank  you!"  With  a  charming, 
swift  grace  he  bent  and  caught  her  hand.  "And, 
madame" — he  hesitated  naively  and  colored  again. 
"Madame,  I  would  like  to  say  that  when  my  home  is 
here  it  will  be  my  care  never  to  desecrate  the  atmosphere 
you  have  created."  He  bent  still  lower,  the  sun  caress- 
ing his  crisp,  dark  hair,  and  very  lightly  his  lips  touched 
her  fingers. 

"Adieu,  madame!" 

"Adieu,  monsieur!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  seemed  to  Max,  as  the  door  closed  behind  him 
and  he  found  himself  upon  the  bare  landing,  that 
he  had  dreamed  and  was  awake  again ;  for  in  truth  the 
menage  into  which  he  had  been  permitted  to  peep 
seemed  more  the  fabric  of  a  dream  than  part  of  the  new, 
inconsequent  life  he  had  elected  to  make  his  own.  A 
curious  halo  of  the  ideal — of  things  set  above  the  corrod- 
ing touch  of  time  or  fortune — surrounded  the  old  man 
forgotten  of  his  world,  and  the  patient  wife,  content  in 
her  one  frail  possession. 

He  felt  without  comprehending  that  here  was  some 
precious  essence,  some  elixir  of  life,  secret  as  it  was 
priceless;   and  for  an  instant  a  shadow,  a  doubt,  a  ques- 
tion crossed  his  happy  egoism.    But  the  sharp,  inquisitive 
voice  of  his  guide  brought  him  back  to  material  things. 
"You  like  the  appartement,  monsieur?" 
He  threw  aside  his  disturbing  thoughts. 
"Undoubtedly,  madame!"   he  said,  quickly.     "It  is 
here  that  I  shall  live."     Without  conscious  intention 
he  used  the  phrase  that  he  had  used  to  Blake — that  he 
had  used  to  Madame  Salas. 

"You  are  quick  of  decision,  monsieur?" 
"  It  is  well,  at  least,  to  know  one's  own  mind,  madame ! 
And  now  tell  me  who  I  shall  have  for  my  neighbor."  As 
they  moved  toward  the  head  of  the  stairs,  he  indicated 
the  second  door  on  the  landing — the  door  innocent  of 
name,  bell,  or  knocker. 

104 


MAX 

"  For  neighbor,  monsieur?  Ah,  I  comprehend!  That 
is  the  appartemcnt  of  M.  Lucien  Cartel,  a  musician;  but 
his  playing  will  not  disturb  you,  for  the  walls  are  thick — 
and,  in  any  case,  he  is  a  good  musician." 

A  conclusion,  winged  with  excitement,  formed  itself 
in  the  mind  of  Max. 

"Madame!"  he  cried.  "He  plays  the  violin — this 
M.  Cartel?" 

"Both  violin  and  piano,  monsieur.  He  has  a  great 
talent." 

"  And,  madame,  he  played  last  night  ?  He  played  last 
night  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  eleven?" 

"  He  plays  constantly,  monsieur,  but  of  last  night  I 
am  not  sure.  Last  night  was  eventful  for  M.  Cartel! 
Last  night —     But  I  speak  too  much!" 

She  glanced  at  Max,  obviously  desiring  the  question 
that  would  unloose  her  tongue.  But  Max  was  not  alert 
for  gossip,  he  was  listening  instead  to  a  faint  sound,  long 
drawn  out  and  fine  as  a  silver  thread,  that  was  slipping 
through  the  crevices  of  M.  Cartel's  door. 

"Ah,  there  he  goes!"  interjected  the  little  woman. 
"Always  at  the  music,  whatever  life  brings!" 

"And  I  am  right!  It  was  he  who  played  last  night. 
How  curious!" 

The  woman  glanced  up,  memory  quickening  her 
expression. 

"But,  yes,  monsieur,  you  are  perfectly  correct,"  she 
said.  "  M.  Cartel  did  play  last  night.  I  remember  now. 
I  was  finishing  the  hem  of  a  black  dress  for  Madame 
Devet,  of  the  rue  des  Abesses,  when  my  husband  came  in 
at  eleven  o'clock.  He  walked  in,  leaving  the  door  open 
— the  door  I  came  through  this  morning  at  your  knock — 
and  he  stood  there,  blowing  upon  his  fingers,  for  it  was 
cold.  'Our  good  Cartel  is  in  love,  Marthe!'  he  said, 
laughing.     'He  is  making  music  like  a  bird  in  spring!' 

i°5 


MAX 

And  then,  monsieur,  the  next  thing  was  a  great  rush  of 
feet  down  the  stairs,  and  who  should  come  flying  into 
the  hallway  but  M.  Cartel  himself.  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  seeing  our  door  open,  and  he,  too,  was  laughing. 
'  What  a  fellow  that  Charpentier  is !'  he  cried  to  my  hus- 
band. '  His  Louise  has  kept  me  until  I  am  all  but  late 
for  my  rendezvous!'  And  he  ran  out  through  the  hall, 
singing  as  he  went.  That  was  all  I  saw  of  M.  Cartel 
until  two  o'clock  this  morning,  when  some  one  knocked 
upon  our  door — " 

But  she  was  permitted  to  go  no  further.  The  silvery 
notes  of  the  violin  had  dwindled  into  silence,  and  Max 
abruptly  remembered  that  he  had  an  appointment  with 
Blake  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 

"  You  are  very  good,  madame,  but  it  is  necessary  that 
I  go!     When  can  I  see  the  concierge?" 

"  The  concierge,  monsieur,  is  my  husband.  He  will  be 
here  for  a  certainty  at  one  o'clock." 

"  Good,  madame!     At  one  o'clock  I  shall  return." 

He  smiled,  nodded,  and  ran  down  the  first  flight  of 
stairs;  but  by  the  window  at  the  half-landing  he  stopped 
and  looked  back. 

"  Madame,  tell  me  something !  What  is  the  rent  of  the 
appartementV 

"  The  rent  ?  Two  hundred  and  sixty  francs  the 
year." 

"  Two  hundred  and  sixty  francs  the  year!"  His  voice 
was  perfectly  expressionless.  Then,  apparently  with- 
out reason,  he  laughed  aloud  and  ran  down-stairs. 

The  woman  looked  after  him,  half  inquisitively,  half 
in  bewilderment;  then  to  herself,  in  the  solitude  of  the 
landing,  she  shook  her  head. 

"An  artist,  for  a  certainty!"  she  said,  aloud,  and, 
turning,  she  retraced  her  steps  and  knocked  with  her 
knuckles  on  the  door  of  M.  Lucien  Cartel. 

1 06 


MAX 

Meanwhile,  Max  finished  his  descent  of  the  stairs,  his 
feet  gliding  with  pleasant  ease  down  the  polished  oak 
steps,  his  hand  slipping  smoothly  down  the  polished 
banister.  Already  the  joy  of  the  free  life  was  singing  in 
his  veins,  already  in  spirit  he  was  an  inmate  of  this  house 
of  many  histories.  He  darted  across  the  hall,  picturing 
in  imagination  the  last  night's  haste  of  M.  Cartel  of  the 
violin.  What  would  he  be  like,  this  M.  Cartel,  when  he 
came  to  know  him  in  the  flesh?  Fat  and  short  and 
negligent  of  his  figure?  or  lean  and  pathetic,  as  though 
dinner  was  not  a  certainty  on  every  day  of  the  seven? 
He  laughed  a  little  to  himself  light-heartedly,  and  gained 
the  street  door  with  unnecessary,  heedless  speed — gained 
it  on  the  moment  that  another  pedestrian,  moving 
swiftly  as  himself,  entered,  bringing  him  to  a  sharp  con- 
sciousness of  the  moment. 

Incomer  and  outgoer  each  drew  back  a  step,  each 
laughed,  each  tendered  an  apology. 

' '  Par  do  n ,  monsi  eur ! " 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle!" 

Then  simultaneously  a  flash  of  recognition  leaped  into 
both  faces. 

"Why,"  cried  the  girl,  "it  is  the  little  friend  of  the 
friend  of  Lize!     How  droll  to  meet  like  this!" 

Her  candor  of  speech  was  disarming;  reticence  fled 
before  her  smile,  before  her  artless  friendliness. 

"What  a  strange  chance!"  said  Max.  "What  brings 
you  to  the  rue  Miiller,  mademoiselle?" 

She  smiled,  and  in  her  smile  there  was  a  little  touch 
of  pride — an  indefinite  pride  that  glowed  about  her 
slender,  youthful  person  like  an  aura. 

"  Monsieur,  I  live  in  this  house — now." 

"Now?"     Sudden  curiosity  fired  him. 

"Ah,  you  do  not  comprehend!  Last  night  was  sad, 
monsieur;    to-day — "     She  stopped. 

107 


MAX 

"To-day,  mademoiselle?" 

For  a  second  the  clear,  childish  blue  of  her  eyes  flashed 
like  a  glimpse  of  spring  skies. 

"  It  is  too  difficult,  monsieur — the  explanation.  It  is 
as  I  say.  Last  night  was  dark ;  to-day  the  sun  shines!" 
She  laughed,  displaying  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  her 
teeth.  "And  you,  monsieur  ?"  she  added,  gayly.  "You 
also  live  here  in  the  rue  Muller  ?  Yes?  No?"  She  bent 
her  head  prettily,  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the  other,  as 
she  put  her  questions. 

"  I  hope  to  live  here,  mademoiselle." 

"Ah!  Then  I  wish  you,  too,  the  sunshine,  monsieur! 
Good-day!" 

"Good-day,  mademoiselle!" 

It  was  over — the  little  encounter ;  she  moved  into  the 
dark  hallway  as  light,  as  joyous,  as  inconsequent  as  a 
bird.  And  Max  passed  out  into  the  sharp,  crisp  air, 
sensible  that  the  troubling  memories  of  the  Bal  Tarbarin 
had  in  some  strange  manner  been  effaced — that  in- 
advertently he  had  touched  some  source  whence  the 
waters  of  life  bubbled  in  eternal,  crystal  freshness. 

In  the  rue  Ronsard  he  found  a  disengaged  cab,  and  in 
ten  minutes  he  was  wheeling  down  into  the  heart  of 
Paris.  It  was  nearing  the  hour  of  dejeuner,  the  boule- 
vards were  already  filling,  and  the  cold,  crisp  air  seemed 
to  vibrate  to  the  bustle  of  hurrying  human  creatures 
seriously  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  food. 

He  smiled  to  himself  at  this  humorously  grave  homage 
offered  up  so  untiringly,  so  zealously  to  the  appetite,  as 
he  made  his  way  between  the  long  line  of  tables  at  the 
restaurant  where  he  had  appointed  to  meet  Blake.  Like 
all  else  that  appertains  to  the  Frenchman,  its  very 
frankness  disarmed  criticism  or  disgust.  He  looked  at 
the  beaming  faces,  smiling  up  from  the  wide-spread 
napkins  in  perfect  accord  with  life,  and  again,  involun- 

108 


MAX 

tarily,  he  smiled.  It  was  essentially  a  good  world,  what- 
ever the  pessimists  might  say! 

From  a  side-table  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  with 
an  added  glow  of  pleasure,  he  turned,  saw  Blake,  and 
made  his  way  through  the  closely  ranged  chairs  and  the 
throng  of  hurrying  waiters. 

"  Well,  boy!  Dissipation  suits  you,  it  seems!  You're 
looking  well.     Just  out  of  bed,  I  suppose?" 

Max  laughed.  Words  were  brimming  to  his  lips,  until 
he  knew  not  how  to  speak. 

"  And  now,  what  '11  you  eat  ?  I  waited  to  order  until 
you  came." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  eat." 

"God  bless  my  soul,  why  not?     Sit  down!" 

Max  laughed  again,  dropped  obediently  into  a  chair, 
rested  his  arms  on  the  table,  and  looked  full  at  Blake. 

"May  I  speak?" 

"From  now  till  Doomsday!     Gar f  on!" 

But  Max  laid  an  impulsive  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Wait !  Do  not  order  for  one  moment !  I  must  tell 
you!"  He  gave  a  little  gasp  of  excitement.  "I  have 
seen  an  appartement  in  the  rue  Muller — an  appartement 
with  a  charming  salon  opening  upon  a  balcony,  a  nice 
little  bedroom,  another  room  with  an  excellent  painting 
light,  a  kitchen  with  water  and  gas,  all — all  for  what  do 
you  imagine?" 

"  What  in  God's  name  are  you  raving  about?"  Blake 
laid  down  the  menu  just  handed  to  him. 

Max  paid  not  the  slightest  heed. 

"  All  for  two  hundred  and  sixty  francs  the  year !  Fig- 
ure it  to  yourself!  Two  hundred  and  sixty  francs  the 
year!  What  one  would  pay  in  a  couple  of  days  for  a 
suite  of  hotel  rooms!  I  am  mad  since  I  have  seen  the 
place — quite  mad !"  He  laughed  again  so  excitedly  that- 
the  people  at  the  neighboring  table  stared. 

8  J°9 


MAX 

"I  can  subscribe  to  that!"  said  Blake,  satirically. 

"Listen!  Listen!  You  have  not  heard;  you  have 
not  understood.  I  have  found  an  appartement  in  the 
rue  Muller,  at  Montmartre — the  appartement  I  had  set 
my  heart  upon,  the  place  where  I  can  live  and  paint  and 
make  my  success!" 

Blake  stared  at  him  in  silence. 

"Yes!  Yes!"  Max  insisted.  "And  it  is  all  quite 
settled.  And  you  are  coming  back  with  me  to-day  at 
one  o'clock  to  interview  the  concierge !" 

Blake  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  I'm  hanged 
if  lam!" 

Yesterday  the  boy  would  have  drawn  back  upon  the 
instant,  armored  in  his  pride,  but  to-day  his  reply  was 
to  look  direct  into  Blake's  face  with  fascinating  audacity. 

"  Then  you  will  leave  me  to  contend  alone  against  who 
can  say  what  villain — what  apache?" 

"  It  strikes  me  you  are  qualified  to  deal  with  any 
apache." 

"You  are  angry!" 

"Angry!     I  should  think  not!" 

"Oh  yes,  you  are!"  Max's  eyes  shone,  his  lips  curled 
into  smiles. 

"  And  why  should  I  be  angry  ?  Because  your  silly 
little  wings  have  begun  to  sprout?  I'm  not  such  a  fool, 
my  boy!  I  knew  well  enough  you'd  soon  be  flying 
alone." 

Max  clapped  his  hands.  "Oh  yes,  you  are!  You  are 
angry — angry — angry !  You  are  angry  because  I  found 
my  way  to  Montmartre  without  you,  and  made  a  little 
discovery  all  by  myself !  Is  it  not  like  a — "  He  stopped, 
laughed,  reddened  as  though  he  had  made  some  slip,  and 
then  on  the  instant  altered  his  whole  expression  to  one 
of  appeal  and  contrition. 

"Monami!" 

no 


MAX 

Blake's  reply  was  to  pick  up  the  menu  and  turn  to  the 
attending  waiter. 

"Monsieur  Ned!" 

Blake  glanced  at  him  reluctantly,  caught  the  softened 
look,  and  laughed. 

"  You're  a  young  scamp — and  I  suppose  I'm  a  cross- 
grained  devil !  But  if  I  was  angry,  where's  the  wonder  ? 
A  man  doesn't  pick  up  a  quaint  little  book  on  the  quais, 
and  look  to  have  it  turning  its  own  leaves!" 

"But  now?  Now  it  is  all  forgiven?  You  will  not 
cast  away  your  little  book  because — because  the  wind 
came  and  fluttered  the  pages?" 

Once  again  Max  spoke  softly,  with  the  softness  that 
broke  so  alluringly  across  the  reckless  independence  of 
look  and  gesture. 

A  sudden  consciousness  of  this  fascination — a  sudden 
annoyance  with  himself  that  he  should  yield  to  it — 
touched  Blake. 

"  I  can't  go  with  you  to  Montmartre,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  "  It's  McCutcheon's  last  day  in  Paris,  and  I 
promised  to  give  him  the  afternoon." 

"Who?     The  long,  spider  man  who  disliked  me?" 

"  A  spider  who  weaves  big  webs,  I  can  tell  you!  You 
ought  to  be  more  respectful  to  your  elders." 

"  And  I  ought  to  have  a  studio  across  the  river?  Oh, 
Monsieur  Ned,  order  some  food,  for  the  love  of  God!  I 
am  perishing  of  hunger." 

Blake  ordered  the  dejeuner,  and  talked  a  great  deal 
upon  indifferent  subjects  while  they  ate;  but  each  felt 
jarred,  each  felt  disappointed,  though  neither  could 
exactly  have  said  why.  At  last,  with  a  certain  relief, 
they  finished  their  coffee  and  made  a  way  between  the 
long  lines  of  tables  to  the  door. 

There  they  halted  for  a  moment  in  mutual  hesitation, 
and  at  last  the  boy  held  out  his  hand. 

ii  i 


MAX 

"And  now  I  must  wish  you  good-bye!  Shall  I  see 
you  any  more?" 

Blake  seemed  lost  in  thought;  he  took  no  notice  of 
the  proffered  hand. 

"  Are  you  going  to  drive  or  walk?"  He  put  the  ques- 
tion after  a  considerable  pause. 

"  I  thought  to  drive,  because — " 

Without  permitting  him  to  complete  the  sentence 
Blake  crossed  the  footpath  and  hailed  a  passing  cab. 

"  Come  on !     In  you  get !" 

Max  obeyed  uncertainly,  and  as  he  took  his  seat  a 
sudden  fear  of  loss  crushed  him — life  became  blank,  the 
brightness  of  the  sun  was  eclipsed. 

"  Monsieur  Ned !"  he  called.  "  Monsieur  Ned !  I  shall 
see  you  again?" 

Blake  was  speaking  to  the  cocker.  '  Rue  Ronsard  F  he 
heard  him  say.      '  The  corner  of  the  rue  Andre"  de  Sarte !' 

He  leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"Monsieur  Ned!  Monsieur  Ned!  I  shall  see  you 
again?     This  is  not  good-bye?" 

Blake  turned ;  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  cab 
and  suddenly  smiled  his  attractive,  humorous  smile. 

"  Little  fool!"  he  said.  "  Didn't  you  know  I  was  com- 
ing with  you?" 


PART   I 


CHAPTER  XII 

FROM  a  distinctly  precarious  perch — one  foot  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  the  other  on  an  oak  chest — Blake 
surveyed  the  unfurnished  salon  of  the  fifth-floor  apparte- 
ment.  His  coat  was  off,  in  one  dusty  hand  he  held  a 
hammer,  in  the  other  a  picture,  while  from  between  his 
lips  protruded  a  brass-headed  nail. 

"  If  I  drive  the  nail  here,  boy,  will  you  be  satisfied  ? 
Upon  my  word,  it's  the  last  place  I'll  try!"  He  spoke 
with  what  dignity  and  distinctness  he  could  command, 
but  the  effect  was  lost  upon  Max,  who,  also  dusty,  also 
bearing  upon  his  person  the  evidences  of  manual  labor, 
was  crouching  over  a  wood  fire,  intent  upon  the  contents 
of  a  brass  coffee-pot. 

"  Max !     Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

"No,  I  do  not  hear.  Take  the  nail  from  your 
mouth." 

"  Take  it  for  me !     I  haven't  a  hand." 

Max  left  the  coffee-pot  with  some  reluctance,  crossed 
the  room,  and  with  the  seriousness  known  only  to  the 
enthusiastic  amateur  in  house-furnishing,  removed  the 
nail  from  Blake's  mouth. 

"  It  is  a  shame!     You  will  spoil  your  nice  teeth." 

"  What  is  a  tooth  or  two  in  such  a  cause !  Have  you  a 
handkerchief?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  for  the  love  of  God,  wipe  my  forehead  for  me!" 

Still  without  a  smile,  Max  produced  a  handkerchief 

"5 


MAX 

that  had  obviously  played  the  role  of  duster  at  an  earlier 
hour  and,  passing  it  over  Blake's  face,  removed  the  dew 
of  heat,  leaving  in  its  place  a  long  black  streak. 

"  Thanks !     I'm  cooler  now — though  probably  dirtier !" 

"  Dirtier!  On  the  contrary,  mon  ami!  You  have  the 
most  artistic  scar  of  dust  that  makes  you  as  interesting 
as  a  German  officer!  Oh!"  His  voice  rose  to  a  cry  of 
sharp  distress,  and  he  ran  back  to  the  fire.  "Oh,  my 
coffee!  My  beautiful  coffee!  Oh,  Ned,  it  has  over- 
boiled!" 

Blake  eyed  the  havoc  from  his  coign  of  vantage  with 
a  philosophy  tinged  with  triumph. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  coffee-pot  was  a  fraud  the  very 
first  day  old  Bluebeard  tried  to  palm  it  off  on  us !  You 
will  never  distinguish  between  beauty  and  utility." 

"  Beauty  is  utility!"  Max,  in  deep  distress,  was  using 
the  much-taxed  handkerchief  to  wipe  the  spilt  coffee 
from  the  hearth. 

"Should  be,  my  boy,  but  isn't!  I  say,  give  me  that 
business  to  see  to!"  Regardless  of  the  picture  still 
dangling  from  his  hand,  he  jumped  to  the  ground  and 
strode  through  a  litter  of  papers,  straw,  and  packing- 
cases. 

"Give  me  that  rag!"  He  took  the  sopping  hand- 
kerchief and  flung  it  into  a  distant  corner.  "  A  wisp  of 
this  straw  is  much  more  useful — less  beautiful,  I  admit!" 

Max  glanced  up  with  wide  eyes,  extremely  wistful  and 
youthful  in  expression.  "  I  do  not  believe  I  care  about 
either  the  use  or  the  beauty,"  he  said,  plaintively.  "I 
only  care  that  I  am  hungry  and  that  my  coffee  is  lost." 

"  Hungry,  boy  ?  Why,  bless  my  soul,  you  must  be 
starving !  What  time  is  it  at  all  ?"  Blake  pulled  out  his 
watch.  "Eleven!  And  we've  been  at  this  hard  since 
eight!  Hungry!  I  should  think  you  are.  Look  here! 
You  just  sit  down!"     He  pushed  aside  the  many  objects 

116 


MAX 

that  encumbered  the  floor,  and  began  impatiently  to 
strip  the  packing  from  a  leather  arm-chair. 

Max  laughed  a  little. 

"  But,  mon  cher,  I  prefer  the  ground — this  nice  warm 
little  corner  close  to  the  fire.  One  day  I  think  I  shall 
have  two  cushions,  like  your  Bluebeard  of  the  curio 
shop,  and  sit  all  day  long  with  my  legs  crossed,  imagin- 
ing myself  a  Turk.  Like  this!"  He  drew  back  against 
the  wall,  curling  himself  up  with  supple  agility,  and 
smiled  into  his  companion's  eyes. 

Blake  looked  down,  half  amused,  half  concerned. 

"Poor  little  gamin!  Tired  and  dirty  and  hungry. 
Just  you  wait!"  Nodding  decisively,  he  crossed  the 
room,  opened  the  door  softly,  and  disappeared. 

Left  to  himself,  Max  drew  farther  back  into  his  warm 
corner  and  clasped  his  hands  about  his  knees.  Max  was 
enjoying  himself.  The  fact  was  patent  in  the  lazy  ease 
of  his  pose,  in  the  smile  that  hovered  about  his  lips,  in 
the  slow,  pleased  glance  that  travelled  round  and  round 
the  bare  room  and  the'  furniture  still  standing  ghostly 
in  its  packing.  It  was  still  the  joyful  beginning  of  things : 
the  clean  white  paper  upon  the  walls  spoke  of  first  hours 
as  audibly  as  the  bunch  of  jonquils  peeping  from  a  dark 
corner  spoke  of  spring.  It  was  still  the  beginning  of 
things — the  salt  before  the  sweet,  the  ineffable,  priceless 
moment  when  life  seems  malleable  and  to  be  bent  to  the 
heart's  desire. 

One  month  had  passed  since  his  first  visit  to  this  fifth 
floor;  one  month  since  he  had  entered  Paris,  armored  in 
his  hopes;   one  month  since  Blake  had  crossed  his  path. 

The  smile  upon  his  lips  deepened,  then  wavered  to 
seriousness,  and  his  gaze  turned  from  the  white  wall  to 
the  fire,  where  the  flames  from  the  logs  spurted  copper 
and  blue. 

One  month.     A  dream — or  a  lifetime  ? 

117 


MAX 

Gazing  into  the  fire,  questioning  his  own  fancy,  he 
could  scarce  decide  which ;  a  dream  in  the  quick  moving 
of  events — the  swift  viewing  of  new  scenes;  a  lifetime 
in  alteration  of  outlook  and  environment — the  severing 
and  knitting  of  bonds. 

The  happy  seriousness  was  still  enfolding  him,  his  eyes 
were  still  intent  upon  the  fire,  when  Blake  entered, 
triumphant,  carrying  a  coffee-pot,  and  followed  by  a  de- 
mure girl  with  blonde  hair  and  delicate  pale  skin. 

"  Monsieur  is  served !" 

Max,  startled  out  of  his  reverie,  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  What  is  this  ?  Oh,  but  you  should  not !  You  should 
not!" 

"And  why  not,  in  the  name  of  God?  If  you  insist 
upon  having  antique  brass  coffee-pots,  your  neighbors 
must  expect  to  suffer,  eh,  Jacqueline?" 

The  little  Jacqueline  laughed,  shaking  her  fair  head. 
"Ah,  well,  monsieur,  it  is  an  art — the  keeping  of  an 
establishment — and  must  be  learned  like  any  other!" 

"And  you  think  we  ought  to  go  to  school?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that !"  She  laid  down  the  loaf  of  bread, 
the  butter,  and  the  milk-jug  that  she  was  carrying,  and 
took  the  coffee  from  Blake's  hands  with  an  air  of  pretty 
gravity.     "And  now,  monsieur,  where  are  the  cups?" 

Blake  turned  to  Max.  "Cups?"  he  said  in  English. 
"  I  know  we  bought  something  quite  unique  in  the  matter 
of  cups,  but  where  the  deuce  we  put  them —  For  the 
love  of  God  and  the  honor  of  the  family,  boy,  tell  me 
where  they  are!" 

Max's  eyes  were  shining.  "They  are  in  the  chest, 
mon  cher.  We  put  them  there  for  safety  as  we  went  out 
last  night." 

" Good!     Give  me  the  key." 

"  The  key,  mon  ami,  I  have  left  at  the  Hotel  Railleux!" 

Consternation  spread  over  Blake's  face,  then  he  burst 

118 


MAX 

out  laughing  and  turned  to  Jacqueline,  relapsing  into 
French. 

"  Monsieur  Max  would  have  you  to  know,  mademoi- 
selle, that  he  possesses  an  altogether  unusual  and  su- 
perior set  of  Oriental  china,  which  he  bought  from  a 
certain  villanous  Jew  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  Andre"  de 
Sarte;  that  for  safety  he  has  locked  that  china  into  the 
artistic  and  musty  dower-chest  standing  against  the 
wall;  and  that  for  greater  safety  he  has  forgotten  the 
key  in  an  antique  hotel  near  the  Gare  du  Nord!" 

He  laughed  again ;  Max  laughed ;  the  little  Jacqueline 
laughed,  and  ran  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  la!  la!  What  a  pair  of  children!"  She  flitted 
out  of  the  room,  returning  with  two  cups,  which  she  set 
beside  the  coffee  and  the  milk. 

"And  now,  messieurs,  it  is  possible  you  can  arrange 
for  yourselves!"  She  shot  a  bright,  quizzical  look  from 
one  to  the  other.  "  I  know  you  would  wish  me  to  stay 
and  measure  out  the  milk  and  sugar,  and  it  would  flatter 
me  to  do  so,  but,  unhappily,  I  have  a  dish  of  some  im- 
portance upon  my  own  fire,  and  it  is  necessary  that  one  is 
domestic  when  one  is  only  a  woman — is  it  not  so,  Mon- 
sieur Max?"  She  wrinkled  her  pretty  face  into  a  grim- 
ace of  mischief,  and  nodded  as  if  some  idea  infinitely 
amusing,  infinitely  profound  lurked  at  the  back  of  her 
blonde  head. 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Edouard.  Good-day,  Monsieur 
Max!" 

"  Strange  little  creature!"  said  Blake,  as  the  door  closed 
upon  her.  "Frail  as  a  butterfly,  with  one  capacity  to 
prevent  her  taking  wing!" 

"  And  that  capacity — what  is  it  ?"  Max  had  returned 
to  his  former  position,  and  was  pouring  out  the  coffee 
as  he  crouched  comfortably  by  the  fire. 

"  The  capacity,  boy,  for  the  grande  passion.     Odd  that 

119 


MAX 

it  should  exist  in  so  light  a  vessel,  but  these  are  the 
secrets  of  Nature !  There  are  moments,  you  know,  when 
this  little  Jacqueline  isn't  laughing  at  life — rare,  I  admit, 
but  still  existent — and  then  you  see  that  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  can  droop.  She  may  live  to  find  existence 
void,  but  she'll  never  live  to  find  it  shallow.  Thanks, 
boy!"  He  took  his  cup  of  coffee,  and,  walking  to  the 
table,  cut  a  slice  of  bread,  which  he  carried  back  to  the 
fire.  "  Now,  don't  say  a  word !  I'm  going  to  make  you 
the  finest  bit  of  toast  you  ever  saw  in  your  life!" 

Max,  preserving  the  required  silence,  watched  him 
make  the  toast,  carefully  balancing  the  bread  on  the 
tip  of  a  knife,  carefully  browning,  carefully  buttering  it. 

"  Now !  Taste  that,  and  tell  me  if  there  wasn't  a  great 
chef  lost  in  me!" 

He  carried  the  toast  back  to  the  fire  and  watched  Max 
eat  the  first  morsel. 

"Nice?" 

"Delicious!" 

"  Ah!  Then  it's  all  fair  sailing!  I'll  cut  myself  a  bit 
of  bread  and  sit  down  on  my  heels  like  you.  There's 
something  in  that  Turkish  idea,  after  all !  But,  as  I  was 
saying" — he  buttered  his  bread  and  dropped  into  posi- 
tion beside  the  boy — "as  I  was  saying  awhile  ago,  that 
child  next  door,  with  all  her  innocent  air  and  her  blue 
eyes,  has  climbed  the  slippery  stairs  and  reached  the 
seventh  heaven.  And  not  only  reached  it  herself,  mind 
you,  but  dragged  that  ungainly  Cartel  with  her  by  the 
tip  of  her  tiny  finger!  Wonderful!  Wonderful!  En- 
viable fate!" 

Max's  eyes  laughed.     "M.  Cartel's?" 

"M.  Cartel's.  Oh,  boy,  that  seventh  heaven!  Those 
slippery  steps!" 

"And  the  tip  of  a  tiny  finger?"  Max  was  jesting; 
but  Blake,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  did  not  perceive  it. 

120 


MAX 

"For  Cartel— yes!"  he  said.  "Forme.no!  I  think 
I'd  like  the  whole  hand." 

Here  Max  picked  up  a  tongs  and  stirred  the  logs  until 
they  blazed. 

"  Absurd !"  he  said.  "  The  tip  of  a  finger  or  the  whole 
of  a  hand,  it  is  all  the  same!  It  is  a  mistake,  this  love! 
That  old  story  of  the  Garden  and  the  Serpent  is  as  true 
as  truth.  Man  and  Woman  were  content  to  live  and 
adorn  the  world  until  one  day  they  espied  the  stupid  red 
Apple — and  straightway  they  must  eat!  Look  even  at 
this  Cartel!  He  is  an  artist;  he  might  make  the  world 
listen  to  his  music.  But,  no!  He  sees  a  little  butterfly, 
as  you  call  her — all  blonde  and  blue — and  down  falls  his 
ambition,  and  up  go  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  hence- 
forth he  is  content  to  fiddle  to  himself  and  to  the  stars! 
Oh,  my  patience  leaves  me!"  Again  he  struck  the 
logs,  and  a  golden  shower  of  sparks  flew  up  the  chim- 
ney. 

"I  don't  know!"  said  Blake,  placidly.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  that  he  isn't  getting  the  best  of  it,  when  all's  said 
and  done!" 

Max  reddened.  "  You  make  me  angry  with  this  '  I 
do  not  know !'  and  '  I  am  not  so  sure !'  The  matter  is 
like  day.  You  cannot  submerge  your  personality  and 
yet  retain  it." 

"I  don't  know!  I'd  submerge  mine  to-morrow  if  I 
could  find  an  alter  ego!" 

"Then,  mon  cher,  you  are  a  fool!" 

Blake  drank  his  coffee  meditatively.  "  Some  say  the 
fools  are  happier  than  the  wise  men!  I  remember  a 
poor  fool  of  a  boy  at  home  in  Clare  who  used  to  say  that 
he  danced  every  night  with  the  fairies  on  the  rath,  and  I 
often  thought  he  was  happier  than  the  people  who 
listened  to  him  out  of  pity,  and  shook  their  heads  and 
laughed  behind  his  back!" 

121 


MAX 

Max  looked  up,  and  as  he  looked  the  anger  died  out  of 
his  eyes. 

"Ned,  mon  cher,  you  are  very  patient  with  me!" 

Blake  turned.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  I  say — that  you  are  patient.     Why  is  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I'm  fond  of  you,  I  suppose." 

"I  am,  then,  a  good  comrade?" 

"The  best." 

"  What  is  it  you  find  in  me?" 

"I  don't  know!     You  are  you." 

"  I  amuse  you?" 

"  You  do — and  more." 

"More!     In  what  way  more?"     Max  drew  nearer. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  You're  as  amusing  and  spirited 
and  generous  as  any  boy  I've  known,  and  yet  you're  dif- 
ferent from  any  boy.  You  sometimes  fit  into  my 
thoughts  almost  like  a  woman  might!"  He  hesitated, 
and  laughed  at  his  own  conceit. 

Max,  with  an  odd  little  movement  of  haste,  drew  away 
again. 

"  Do  not  say  that,  mon  ami!  Do  not  think  it!  I  am 
your  good  comrade,  that  is  all." 

"  Of  course  you  are!     Sorry  if  I  hurt  your  pride." 

"  You  did  not.  It  was  not  that."  With  an  inexplic- 
able change  of  mood  Max  drew  near  again,  and  suddenly 
slipped  his  hand  through  Blake's  arm. 

They  laughed  in  unison  at  the  return  to  amity,  and 
then  fell  silent,  looking  into  the  fire,  watching  the  blue 
spurt  of  the  flames,  the  feathery  curls  of  ash  on  the 
charred  logs. 

"  Ned!  Make  me  one  of  your  stories!  Tell  me  what 
you  are  seeing  in  the  fire!" 

Blake  settled  himself  more  comfortably. 

"  Well,  boy,  I  was  just  seeing  a  castle,"  he  began  in  the 
accepted  manner  of  the  story-teller,  and  in  his  pleasant, 

122 


MAX 

soothing  voice.  "  A  great  big  castle  on  the  summit  of  a 
mountain,  with  a  golden  flag  fluttering  in  the  sunset;  and 
I  think  it  must  be  the  '  Castle  of  Heart's  Desire,'  because 
all  up  the  craggy  path  that  leads  to  it  there  are  knights 
urging  their  horses — " 

"Good!"  Max  smiled  with  pleasure  and  pressed  his 
arm.     "Continue!     Continue!" 

"Well,  they're  all  sorts  of  knights,  you  know,"  Blake 
went  on  in  the  dreamy,  singsong  voice — "fair  knights 
and  red  knights  and  black  knights,  every  one  of  them 
in  glittering  armor,  with  long  lances,  and  wonderful 
devices  on  their  shields — " 

"Yes!     Yes!" 

" — wonderful  devices  on  their  shields,  and  spurs  of 
gold  and  silver,  and  waving  plumes  of  many  colors;  and 
the  flanks  of  their  horses — cream-colored  and  chestnut 
and  black — shine  in  the  light." 

"Continue,  mon  cher!  Continue!  I  can  see  them 
also!"  Max,  utterly  absorbed,  charming  as  a  child,  bent 
forward,  staring  into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

"  Well,  they  mount  and  mount  and  mount,  and  some- 
times the  great  horses  refuse  the  craggy  path  and  rear, 
and  sometimes  a  knight  is  unseated  and  the  others  look 
back  and  laugh  at  his  discomfiture  and  ride  on  until 
they  themselves  are  proved  unfit;  and  so,  on  and  on, 
while  the  way  gets  steeper  and  more  perilous,  and  the 
company  smaller  and  still  smaller,  until  the  sun  drops 
down  behind  the  mountain  and  the  gold  flag  flutters  as 
gray  as  a  moth,  and  in  all  the  windows  of  the  castle 
torches  spring  up  to  greet  the  knight  who  shall  succeed." 

"And  which  is  he — the  knight  who  shall  succeed?" 

"Don't  you  see  him?" 

"  No !     Where  is  he  ?     Where  ?" 

"  Why,  there — riding  first,  on  the  narrowest  verge  of 
the  craggy  path !     A  very  young  knight  with  dark  hair 

123 


MAX 

and  a  proud  carriage  and  gray  eyes  with  flecks  of  gold  in 
them." 

For  an  instant  Max  gazed  seriously  into  the  flames, 
then  turned,  blushing  and  laughing. 

"Ah!  But  you  are  laughing  at  me!  What  a  shame! 
For  a  punishment  you  shall  go  straight  back  to  work." 
He  jumped  up  and  handed  Blake  his  discarded  hammer. 

Blake  looked  reluctantly  at  the  hammer,  then  looked 
back  at  the  enticing  flame  of  the  logs. 

"Oh,  very  well!  Have  it  your  own  way!"  he  said, 
getting  slowly  to  his  feet.  "  But  if  I  were  you,  I'd  like 
to  have  heard  what  awaited  the  knight  in  the  tapestried 
chamber  of  the  castle  tower!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TO  the  zest  of  the  amateur,  Blake  added  knowledge 
of  a  practical  kind  in  the  arrangement  of  household 
gods,  and  long  ere  the  February  dusk  had  fallen,  the 
fifth-floor  appartement  had  assumed  a  certain  homeliness. 
True,  much  of  the  '  old  iron,'  as  he  termed  the  coppers 
and  brasses  for  which  Max  had  bartered  in  the  rue  Andre 
de  Sarte,  still  encumbered  the  floor,  and  most  of  the 
windows  cried  aloud  for  covering;  but  the  little  salon 
was  habitable,  and  in  the  bedroom  once  occupied  by 
Madame  Salas  a  bed  and  a  dressing-table  stood  forth, 
fresh  and  enticing  enough  to  suggest  a  lady's  chamber, 
while  over  the  high  window  white  serge  curtains  shut 
out  the  cold. 

At  seven  o'clock,  having  torn  the  canvas  wrappings 
from  the  last  chair,  the  two  workers  paused  in  their 
labors  by  common  consent  and  looked  at  each  other  by 
the  uncertain  light  of  half  a  dozen  candles  stuck  into 
bowls  and  vases  in  various  corners  of  the  salon. 

"Boy,"  said  Blake,  breaking  what  had  been  a  long 
silence,  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  you're  done !  Take  a  warm 
by  the  fire  for  a  minute,  while  I  tub  under  the  kitchen 
tap,  then  we'll  fare  forth  for  a  meal  and  a  breath  of  air!" 

Max,  who  had  worked  with  fierce  zeal  if  little  knowl- 
edge, made  no  protest.  His  face  was  pale,  and  he  moved 
with  a  certain  slow  weariness. 

"Here!  Let's  test  the  big  chair!"  Blake  pulled  for- 
ward the  deep  leathern  arm-chair,  that  had  been  pur- 
9  125 


MAX 

chased  second-hand  in  the  rue  de  la  Nature,  and  set  it 
in  front  of  the  blazing  logs.  Without  a  word,  Max  sank 
into  it. 

"Comfortable?" 

"Very  comfortable."     The  voice  was  a  little  thin. 

The  other  looked  down  upon  him.  "  You're  done,  you 
know!  Literally  done!  Why  didn't  you  give  in 
sooner?" 

"  Because  I  was  not  tired — and  I  am  not  tired." 

"Not  tired!  And  your  face  is  as  white  as  a  sheet! 
I  don't  believe  you're  fit  to  go  out  for  food." 

"How  absurd!  You  talk  as  though  I  were  a  child!" 
Max  lifted  himself  petulantly  on  one  elbow,  but  his  head 
drooped  and  the  remonstrance  died  away  before  it  was 
finished. 

"  I  talk  as  if  you  were  a  child,  do  I  ?  Then  I  talk  un- 
common good  sense!     Well,  I'm  off  to  wash." 

"There  is  some  soap  in  my  bedroom."  The  voice 
seemed  to  come  from  a  great  distance,  the  elbow  slipped 
from  the  arm  of  the  chair,  the  dark  head  drooped  still 
more,  and  as  the  door  shut  upon  Blake,  the  eyelids  closed 
mechanically. 

Blake's  washing  was  a  protracted  affair,  for  the  day 
had  been  long  and  the  toil  strenuous;  but  at  last  he 
returned,  face  and  hands  clean,  hair  smooth,  and 
clothes  reduced  to  order. 

"  Sorry  for  being  so  long,"  he  began,  as  he  walked  into 
the  room;  but  there  he  stopped,  his  eyebrows  went  up, 
and  his  face  assumed  a  curious  look,  half  amused,  half 
tender. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said  below  his  breath,  and  tiptoeing 
across  the  room,  he  paused  by  the  arm-chair,  in  the 
depths  of  which  Max's  slight  figure  was  curled  up  in  the 
pleasant  embrace  of  sleep. 

The  fire  had  died  down,  the  pool  of  candle-light  was 


THE     IMPRESSION    OF    A     MYSTERY     FLOWED    BACK    UPON     HIM 


MAX 

not  brilliant,  and  in  the  soft,  shadowed  glow  the  boy- 
made  an  attractive  picture. 

One  hand  lay  carelessly  on  either  arm  of  the  chair; 
the  head  was  thrown  back,  the  black  lashes  of  the  closed 
eyes  cast  shadows  on  the  smooth  cheeks. 

Blake  looked  long  and  interestedly,  and  his  earliest 
impression — the  impression  of  a  mystery — flowed  back 
upon  him  strong  as  on  the  night  of  the  long  journey. 

The  beauty  and  strength  of  the  face  called  forth 
thought;  and  Max's  own  declaration,  so  often  repeated, 
came  back  upon  him  with  new  meaning,  '  I  am  older 
than  you  think!' 

For  almost  the  first  time  the  words  carried  weight. 
It  was  not  that  the  features  looked  older;  if  anything 
they  appeared  younger  in  their  deep  repose.  But  the 
expression — the  slight  knitting  of  the  dark  brows,  the 
set  of  the  chin,  the  modelling  of  the  full  lips,  usually  so 
mobile  and  prone  to  laughter — suggested  a  hidden  force, 
gave  warranty  of  a  depth,  a  strength  irreconcilable  with 
a  boy's  capacities. 

He  looked — puzzled,  attracted;  then  his  glance 
dropped  from  the  face  to  the  pathetically  tired  limbs, 
and  the  sense  of  pity  stirred  anew,  banishing  question, 
causing  the  light  of  a  pleasant  inspiration  to  awaken  in 
his  eyes. 

Smiling  to  himself,  he  replenished  the  fire  with  exag- 
gerated stealth;  and,  creeping  out  of  the  room,  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

He  was  gone  for  over  half  an  hour,  and  when  he  again 
entered,  the  fire  had  sprung  into  new  life,  and  fresh 
flames — blue  and  sulphur  and  copper-colored — were 
dancing  up  the  chimney,  while  the  candles  in  their 
strange  abiding-places  had  burned  an  inch  or  two  lower. 
But  his  eyes  were  for  Max,  and  for  Max  alone,  and  with 
the  same  intense  stealth  he  crept  across  the  room  to  the 

127 


MAX 

bare  table  and  solemnly  unburdened  himself  of  a  variety 
of  parcels  and  a  cheery-looking  bottle  done  up  in  red 
tissue-paper. 

Max  still  slept,  and,  drawing  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  he 
proceeded  with  the  task  he  had  set  himself- — the  task  of 
providing  supper  after  the  manner  of  the  genius  in  the 
fairy-tale. 

First  plates  were  brought  from  the  new-filled  kitchen 
shelves;  then  knives  were  found,  and  forks;  then  the 
mysterious-looking  parcels  delivered  up  their  contents — 
a  cold  roast  chicken,  all  brown  and  golden  as  it  had  left 
the  oven,  cheese,  butter,  crisp  rolls,  and  crisp  red 
radishes,  finally  a  little  basket  piled  with  fruit. 

It  was  a  very  simple  meal,  but  Blake  smiled  to  him- 
self as  he  set  out  the  dishes  to  the  best  advantage,  placed 
the  wine  reverentially  in  the  centre  to  crown  the  feast, 
and  at  last,  still  tiptoeing,  came  round  to  the  back  of 
Max's  chair  and  laid  his  hands  over  the  closed  eyes. 

"Guess!"  he  said,  as  if  to  a  child. 

Max  gave  a  little  cry,  in  which  surprise  and  fear 
struggled  for  supremacy;  then  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
shaking  off  the  imprisoning  hands. 

"What  is  it?  Who  is  it?"  Then  he  laughed  shame- 
facedly, and,  turning,  saw  the  spread  table. 

"  Oh,  mon  ami!"  His  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  gazed 
from  the  food  to  Blake.  "Mon  ami!  You  have  done 
this  for  me  while  I  was  sleeping!" 

His  gaze  was  eloquent  even  beyond  his  words,  and 
Blake,  finding  no  fit  answer,  began  to  move  about  the 
room,  collecting  the  vases  "that  held  the  candles  and 
carrying  them  to  the  table. 

"Mon  ami!" 

"Nonsense,  boy!  It's  little  enough  I  do,  goodness 
knows!" 

"This  is  a  great  deal." 

128 


MAX 


« 


Nonsense !  What  is  it  ?  You  were  fagged  and  I  was 
fresh!  And  now  I  suppose  I  must  knock  the  head  off 
this  bottle,  for  we  haven't  a  corkscrew.  The  Lord  lend 
me  a  steady  hand,  for  'twould  be  a  pity  if  I  shook  the 
wine!" 

He  carried  the  bottle  to  the  fireplace,  and  with  con- 
siderable dexterity  cracked  the  head  and  wiped  the  raw 
glass  edges.  "  Now,  boy,  the  glasses!  Oh,  but  have  we 
glasses,  though?"  His  face  fell  in  a  manner  that  set 
Max  laughing. 

"We  have  one  glass — in  my  room." 

"Bravo!     Flv  for  it!" 

Max  laughed  again — his  sleep,  his  surprise,  his  grati- 
tude equally  routed;  he  flew,  in  literal  obedience  to  the 
command,  across  the  little  hall  and,  groping  his  way  to 
the  dressing-table,  searched  about  in  the  darkness  for  the 
tumbler. 

"Ned!     A  candle!" 

Blake  brought  the  desired  light,  and  together  they  dis- 
covered the  coveted  glass.  Max  seized  upon  it  eagerly, 
but  as  he  delivered  it  up  a  swift  exclamation  escaped 
him: 

"My  God!     How  dirty  I  am!     Regard  my  hands!" 

"What  does  it  matter!  You  can  wash  after  you've 
eaten." 

"  Oh,  but  no!     I  pay  more  compliment  to  your  feast." 

"  Very  well,  then!  We  may  hope  to  sup  in  an  hour  or 
so.     I  know  you  and  the  making  of  your  toilet!" 

"Impertinent!"  Max  caught  him  by  the  arm  and 
pushed  him,  laughing,  toward  the  door.  "  Go  back  and 
complete  the  table.  I  will  delay  but  four — three — two 
minutes  in  the  making  of  myself  clean." 

"  But  the  table  is  complete — " 

"  It  is  incomplete,  rnon  ami;   it  is  without  flowers." 

Before  Blake's  objections  could  form  into  new  words, 

129 


MAX 

he  found  himself  in  the  little  hallway  with  the  bedroom 
door  closed  upon  him,  and,  being  a  philosopher,  he  shook 
his  head  contentedly  and  walked  back  into  the  salon, 
where  he  obediently  brought  to  light  the  bowl  of  jonquils 
that  was  still  perfuming  the  air  from  its  dark  corner,  and 
set  it  carefully  between  the  wine  and  the  fruit. 

Ten  minutes  and  more  slipped  by,  during  which,  still 
philosophical,  he  walked  slowly  round  and  round  the 
table,  straightening  a  candle  here,  altering  a  dish  there, 
humming  all  the  while  in  a  not  unmusical  voice  the  song 
from  Louise. 

He  was  dwelling  fondly  upon  the  line 

"  Depuis  le  jour  ou  je  me  suis  donnee" — 

when  the  door  of  the  bedroom  was  flung  open  as  by  a 
gale,  and  at  the  door  of  the  salon  appeared  Max — his 
dark  hair  falling  over  his  forehead,  a  comb  in  one  hand, 
a  brush  in  the  other. 

"  Mon  cher!  a  hundred — a  thousand  apologies  for  being 
so  long!     It  is  all  the  fault  of  my  hair!" 

Blake  looked  at  him  across  the  candles.  "  Indeed 
I  wouldn't  bother  about  my  hair,  if  I  were  you!  A  cen- 
tury of  brushing  wouldn't  make  it  respectable." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Look  at  the  length  of  it!" 

"  Ah,  but  that  pleases  me!" 

Blake  shook  his  head  in  mock  seriousness.  "  These 
artists!     These  artists!"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

Max  laughed,  threw  the  comb  and  brush  from  him 
into  some  unseen  corner  of  the  hall,  and  ran  across  the 
salon. 

"  You  are  very  ill-mannered!     I  shall  box  your  ears!" 

Blake  threw  himself  into  an  attitude  of  defence.  "  I'd 
ask  nothing  better!"  he  cried.  "Come  on!  Just  come 
on!" 

!3o 


MAX 

Max,  laughing  and  excited,  took  a  step  forward,  then 
paused  as  at  some  arresting  thought. 

"  Afraid  ?     Oh,  la,  la !     Afraid  ?" 

"Afraid!"  The  boy  tossed  the  word  back  scornfully, 
but  his  face  flushed  and  he  made  no  advance. 

"You'll  have  to,  now,  you  know!" 

Max  retreated. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't!"  With  a  quick,  gay  laugh, 
touched  with  the  fire  of  battle,  Blake  followed;  but  ere 
he  could  come  to  close  quarters,  the  boy  had  dodged  and, 
lithe  and  swift  as  a  cat,  was  round  the  table. 

"No!  No!"  he  cried,  with  a  little  gasp,  a  little  sob 
of  excitement  that  caught  the  breath.  "No!  No!  I 
demand  grace.  A  starving  man,  mon  ami!  A  starving 
man!     It  is  not  fair." 

He  knew  his  adversary.  Blake's  hands  dropped  to  his 
sides,  he  yielded  with  a  laugh. 

"Very  well!  Very  well!  Another  time  I'll  see  what 
you're  made  of.  And  now  '  we'll  exterminate  the  bread- 
stuffs,'  as  McCutcheon  would  say!" 

And  laughing,  jesting — content  in  the  moment  for  the 
moment's  sake — they  sat  down  to  their  first  serious  meal 
in  the  little  salon. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  meal  was  over;    the  candles  had  burned  low; 
in  the  quiet,  warm  room  the  sense  of  repose  was 
dominant. 

Blake  took  out  his  cigarette-case  and  passed  it  across 
the  table,  watching  Max  with  lazy  interest  as  he  chose 
a  cigarette  and  lighted  it  at  a  candle-flame. 

"Happy?" 

"Absolutely!" 

He  had  wanted  in  a  vague,  subconscious  way  to  see  the 
flash  of  the  white  teeth,  the  quick,  familiar  lifting  of  the 
boy's  glance,  and  now  he  smiled  as  a  man  secretly  satisfied. 

"  I  know  just  exactly  what  you're  feeling,"  he  said,  as 
Max  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  inhaled  a  first 
deep  breath  of  smoke.  "  You  feel  that  that  little  white 
curl  from  the  end  of  your  cigarette  is  the  last  puff  of 
smoke  from  the  boats  you  have  burned ;  and  that,  with 
your  own  four  walls  around  you,  you  can  snap  your 
fingers  at  the  world.     I  know!     God,  don't  I  know!" 

Max  smiled  slowly,  watching  the  tip  of  his  cigarette. 
"Yes,  you  know!  That  is  the  beautiful  thing  about 
you." 

The  appreciation  warmed  Blake's  soul  as  the  good  red 
wine  had  warmed  his  blood. 

"  I  believe  I  do — with  you.  I  believe  I  could  tell  you 
precisely  your  thoughts  at  this  present  moment."  With 
a  pleasant,  meditative  action,  he  drew  a  cigar  from  his 
case. 

132 


MAX 

"Tell  me!" 

"Well,  first  of  all,  there's  the  great  contentment — the 
sense  of  a  definite  step.  You're  strong  enough  to  like 
finality." 

"  I  hope  I  am.     I  think  I  am." 

"  You  are !  Not  a  doubt  of  it !  But  what  I  mean  is 
that  you've  left  an  old  world  for  a  new  one;  and  no 
matter  how  exciting  the  voyaging  through  space  may 
have  been,  you  like  to  feel  your  feet  on  terra  firma." 

Max  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "That  is  quite  true! 
And  I  like  it  because  now  I  can  open  my  eyes,  and  say 
to  myself,  'not  to-morrow,  but  to-day  I  live.'  I  have 
put — how  do  you  say  in  English? — my  hand  upon  the 
plough." 

"Exactly!  The  plough — or  the  palette — it's  all  the 
same!     You're  set  to  it  now." 

The  boy's  eyes  flashed  in  the  candle-light,  and  for  an 
instant  something  of  the  fierce  emotion  that  can  lash  the 
Russian  calm,  as  a  gale  lashes  the  sea,  troubled  his  young 
face. 

"  You  comprehend — absolutely !  I  have  made  my 
choice;  I  have  come  to  it  out  of  many  situations.  I 
would  die  now  rather  than  I  would  fail." 

In  his  voice  was  a  suppressed  fervor  akin  to  some 
harsh  or  cruel  emotion;  and  to  Blake,  watching  and 
listening,  there  floated  the  hot  echo  of  stories  in  which 
Russians  had  acted  strange  parts  with  a  resolve,  a  cal- 
lousness incomprehensible  to  other  races. 

"  When  you  talk  like  that,  boy,  I  could  almost  go  back 
to  that  first  night,  and  adopt  McCutcheon's  theory. 
You  might  feasibly  be  a  revolutionary  with  those  blazing 
eyes." 

Max  laughed,  coming  back  to  the  moment. 

"Only  revolutionary  in  my  own  cause!  I  fight  my- 
self for  myself.     You  take  my  meaning?" 

133 


MAX 

"  Not  in  the  very  least !  But  I  accept  your  statement ; 
I  like  its  brave  ring.     You  are  your  own  romance." 

"  I  am  my  own  romance." 

"  Let's  drink  to  it,  then !  Your  romance — whatever 
it  may  be!"  He  raised  the  half-empty  tumbler,  drank 
a  little,  and  handed  it  across  the  table. 

Max  laughed  and  drank  as  well.  "  My  romance — ■ 
whatever  it  may  be!" 

"  Whatever  it  may  be !  And  now  for  that  breath  of 
air  we  promised  ourselves!     It's  close  on  ten  o'clock." 

So  the  meal  ended;  coats  were  found,  candles  blown 
out,  and  a  last  proprietary  inspection  of  the  appartement 
made  by  the  aid  of  matches. 

They  ran  down  the  long,  smooth  staircase,  and,  step- 
ping into  the  quiet,  starlit  rue  Miiller,  linked  arms  and 
began  their  descent  upon  Paris  with  as  much  ease,  as 
nice  a  familiarity  as  though  life  for  both  of  them  had 
been  passed  in  the  shadow  of  the  Sacre-Cceur. 

On  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy  the  usual  confusion  of 
lights  and  humanity  greeted  them  like  welcoming  arms, 
and  with  the  same  agreeable  nonchalance  they  yielded 
to  the  embrace. 

Conscious  of  no  definite  purpose,  they  turned  to  the 
right  and  began  to  breast  the  human  tide  with  eyes 
carelessly  critical  of  the  thronging  faces,  ears  heedlessly 
open  to  the  many  tangled  sounds  of  street  life.  Outside 
the  theatres,  flaunting  posters  made  pools  of  color;  in 
the  roadway,  the  network  of  traffic  surged  and  inter- 
mingled; from  amid  the  flat  house  fronts,  at  every  few 
hundred  yards,  some  cabaret  broke  upon  the  sight  in 
crude  confusion  of  scenic  painting  and  electric  light; 
while  dominating  all — a  monument  to  the  power  of  tradi- 
tion— the  sails  of  the  time-honored  mill  sprang  red  and 
glaring  from  a  background  of  quiet  sky. 

But  the  two,  walking  arm-in-arm,  had  no  glance  for 

134 


MAX 

revolving  mill-sails  or  vivid  advertisement,  and  pres- 
ently Blake  halted  before  a  house  that,  but  for  a  certain 
prosperity  of  stained-glass  window  and  dark-green  paint, 
would  have  seemed  a  common  wine  shop. 

"Max,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  the  famous  night 
when  we  went  to  the  Bal  Tabarin,  and  saw  much  wine 
spilled  ?     It  was  here  I  was  first  going  to  bring  you  then." 

"Here?" 

" This  very  place!  Tis  one  of  the  old  artistic  cabarets 
of  Paris — grown  a  bit  too  big  for  its  shoes  now,  like  the 
rest  of  Montmartre,  but  still  retaining  a  flavor.  What 
do  you  say  to  turning  in?" 

"I  say  'yes.'" 

"Come  along,  then!  I  hope  'twon't  disappoint  you! 
There's  a  good  deal  of  rubbish  here,  but  a  scattering  of 
grain  among  the  chaff .     Ah,  messieurs!     Good-evening!" 

This  last  was  addressed  with  cordiality  to  a  knot  of 
men  gathered  inside  the  doorway  of  the  cabaret,  all  of 
whom  rose  politely  from  their  chairs  at  Blake's  entry. 

Max,  peering  curioubly  through  the  tobacco  smoke 
that  veiled  the  place,  received  an  impression  of  a 
room  —  rather,  of  a  shop  —  possessed  of  tables,  chairs, 
a  small  circular  counter  where  glasses  and  bottles  winked 
and  gleamed,  and  of  walls  hung  with  a  truly  Parisian 
collection  of  impressionist  studies  and  clever  caricatures. 

"Monsieur  is  interested?" 

He  turned,  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  host,  a  stout  and 
affable  Frenchman,  who  by  right  divine  held  first  place 
among  the  little  group  of  loungers;  but  before  he  could 
frame  a  reply,  Blake  answered  for  him. 

"He  is  an  artist,  M.  Fruvier,  and  finds  all  life  inter- 
esting." 

M.  Fruvier  bowed  with  much  subtle  comprehension. 

"  Then  possibly  it  will  intrigue  him  to  step  inside,  and 
hear  our  little  concert.     We  are  about  to  commence." 

135 


MAX 

Blake  nodded  in  silent  acquiescence;  the  knot  of  men 
bowed  quickly  and  stiffly;  and  Max  found  himself  being 
led  across  the  bare,  sawdust-strewn  floor  into  an  inner 
and  larger  room — a  holy  of  holies — where  the  light  was 
dimmer  and  the  air  more  cool. 

Here,  a  scattered  audience  was  assembled — a  score 
or  so  of  individuals,  sober  of  dress,  unenthusiastic  of 
demeanor,  sitting  in  twos  and  threes,  sipping  beer  or 
liqueurs  and  waiting  for  the  concert  to  begin. 

Max's  eyes  wandered  over  this  collection  of  people 
while  Blake  sought  for  seats,  but  his  glance  and  his  in- 
terest passed  on  almost  immediately  to  the  walls,  where, 
as  in  the  outer  room,  pictures  ranged  from  floor  to 
ceiling. 

The  seats  were  chosen ;  a  white-aproned  waiter  claimed 
an  order,  and  Blake  gave  one  as  if  from  habit. 

"And  now,  boy,  a  cigarette?" 

"If  you  please — a  cigarette!"  Max's  voice  had  the 
quick  note,  his  eyes  the  swift  light  that  spoke  excitement. 
" Mon  ami,  I  like  this  place!  I  like  it!  And  I  wonder 
who  painted  that?"  He  indicated  a  picture  that  hung 
upon  the  wall  beside  them. 

"  I  don't  know!  Some  chap  who  used  to  frequent  the 
place  in  his  unknown  days.     We  can  ask  Fruvier." 

"It  is  clever." 

"It  is." 

"  It  has  imagination." 

They  both  looked  at  the  picture — a  study  in  black 
and  white,  showing  an  attic  room,  with  a  pierrette  seated 
disconsolate  upon  a  bed,  a  pierrot  gazing  through  a 
window. 

"Pierrot  seeking  the  moon,  eh?" 

Max  nodded. 

"  Yes.     It  has  imagination — and  also  technique!" 

But  their   criticism  was   interrupted;    a  piano  was 

136 


MAX 

opened  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  by  an  individual 
affecting  the  unkempt  hair  and  velveteen  coat  of  past 
Bohemianism,  who  seated  himself  and  ran  his  fingers 
over  the  keys  as  though  he  alone  occupied  the  room. 

At  this  very  informal  signal,  the  curtain  rose  upon  a 
ridiculously  small  stage,  and  an  insignificant,  nervous- 
looking  man  stepped  toward  the  footlights  at  the  same 
moment  that  M.  Fruvier  and  his  followers  entered  and 
seated  themselves  in  a  row,  their  backs  to  the  wall. 

This  appearance  of  the  proprietor  was  the  sole  meed 
of  interest  offered  to  the  singer,  the  audience  continuing 
to  smoke,  to  sip,  even  to  peruse  the  evening  papers  with 
stoic  indifference. 

The  song  began — a  long  and  unamusing  ditty,  topical 
in  its  points.  Here  and  there  a  smile  showed  that  it  did 
not  pass  unheard,  and  as  the  singer  disappeared  a  faint 
roulade  of  applause  came  from  the  back  of  the  room. 

Max  turned  to  his  companion. 

"But  I  believed  the  Parisians  to  be  all  excitement! 
What  an  audience!     Like  the  dead!" 

"They  are  excitable  when  something  excites  them." 

"Then  they  dislike  this  song?" 

"Oh  no!  'Not  bad!'  they'd  say  if  you  asked  them; 
but  they're  not  here  to  be  excited — they're  not  here  to 
waste  enthusiasm.  Like  ourselves,  they  have  worked 
and  have  eaten,  and  are  enjoying  an  hour's  repose.  The 
song  is  part  of  the  hour — as  inevitable  as  the  bock  and 
the  cigar,  and  you  can't  expect  a  smoker  to  wax  elo- 
quent over  a  familiar  weed." 

"How  strange!  How  interesting!"  The  boy  looked 
round  the  scattered  groups  that  formed  to  his  young 
eyes  another  side-show  in  the  vast  theatre  of  life. 

No  one  heeded  his  interest.  The  women,  young  and 
elderly  alike,  conversed  with  their  escorts  and  sipped 
their  liqueurs  with  absorbed  quiet;  the  men  smoked  and 

137 


MAX 

drank,  talked  or  read  aloud  little  paragraphs  from  their 
papers  with  whispering  relish. 

Then  again  the  piano  tinkled,  and  the  same  singer  ap- 
peared, to  sing  another  song  almost  identical  with  the 
first;  but  now  his  nervousness  was  less,  he  won  a  laugh 
or  two  for  his  political  innuendoes,  and  when  he  finished 
Max  clapped  his  hands,  and  Blake  laughingly  followed 
suit. 

"  He's  a  new  man,"  he  said;  "  this  is  probably  his  first 
night." 

"  His  first  ?  Oh,  poor  creature!  What  a  debut!  Clap 
your  hands  again!" 

"Poor  creature  indeed!  He's  delighted  with  himself. 
Many  a  better  man  has  been  driven  from  the  stage  after 
his  first  verse.     Your  Paris  can  be  cruel." 

Their  example  had  been  tepidly  followed,  and  the 
singer,  beaming  under  the  relaxed  tension  of  his  nerves, 
was  smiling  and  bowing  before  entering  upon  the  perils 
of  a  third  song. 

"And  what  do  they  pay  him?" 

"Oh,  a  couple  of  francs  a  song!  The  fees  will  grow 
with  his  success." 

Max  gasped.     "A  couple  of  francs!     Oh,  my  God!" 

"What  do  you  expect?     We're  not  in  Eldorado." 

"But  a  couple  of  francs!" 

"Ssh!  Don't  talk  anarchy.  Here  come  the  powers 
that  be!" 

M.  Fruvier  was  coming  toward  them,  making  his  way 
between  the  seats  with  many  bows,  many  apologetic 
smiles. 

"  Well,  messieurs,  and  what  of  our  new  one  ?  Not  a 
Vagot,  perhaps" — mentioning  a  famous  comique  whose 
star  had  risen  in  the  firmament  of  the  cabaret — "not  a 
Vagot,  perhaps,  but  not  bad!     Not  bad?" 

"Not  bad!"  acquiesced  Blake. 

138 


MAX 

"Very  good!"  added  Max,  pondering  hotly  upon  the 
wage  of  the  singer,  and  regarding  M.  Fruvier  with 
doubtful  glance. 

"No!  No  Not  bad!"  reiterated  that  gentleman,  as 
if  viewing  the  performance  from  a  wholly  impersonal 
standpoint.  "Not  bad!"  And,  still  bowing,  still  smil- 
ing, he  wandered  on  to  exchange  opinions  with  his  other 
patrons,  while  a  new  singer  appeared,  a  man  whose  vast 
proportions  and  round  red  face  looked  truly  absurd  upon 
the  tiny  stage,  but  whose  merry  eye  and  instant  friendly 
nod  gained  him  a  murmur  of  welcome. 

With  the  appearance  of  the  new-comer  a  little  stir  of 
life  was  felt,  and  in  obedience  to  some  impulse  of  his 
own,  Max  took  a  sketch-book  and  a  pencil  from  his 
pocket,  and  sat  forward  in  his  seat,  with  glance  roving 
round  and  round  the  room,  pencil  poised  above  the  paper. 

"I  heard  this  fellow  here  twelve  years  ago,"  said 
Blake.  "  He  and  Vagot  were  young  men  then.  Shows 
the  odd  lie  of  things  in  this  world!  There's  Vagot  mak- 
ing his  thousands  of  francs  a  week  next  door  at  the 
Moulin  Rouge,  and  this  poor  fat  clown  still  where  he 
was!" 

Max  did  not  reply.  His  head  was  bent,  his  face 
flushed ;  he  was  sketching  with  a  furious  haste. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

Still  no  reply.  The  song  rolled  on;  and  Blake,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  seat,  smoking  with  leisurely  enjoyment, 
felt  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  sense  of 
complete  companionship — that  subtle  condition  of  mind 
so  continuously  craved,  so  rarely  found,  so  instantly 
recognized. 

"Boy,"  he  said  at  last,  "let  me  come  up  sometimes 
when  you're  messing  with  your  paints?  I  won't  bother 
you." 

Max  looked  up  and  nodded — a  mere  flash  of  a  look,  but 

139 


MAX 

one  that  conveyed  sufficient ;  and  the  two  relapsed  again 
into  silence. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  boy  raised  his  head,  tossed 
a  lock  of  hair  out  of  his  eyes,  and  closed  his  sketch-book. 

Blake  met  his  eyes  comprehendingly.     "  Will  we  go  ?" 

"  Yes.     But  one  more  glance  at  this  black-and-white!" 

He  jumped  up,  unembarrassed,  unconscious  of  self, 
and  looked  at  the  picture  closely ;  then  stepped  back  and 
looked  at  it  from  a  little  distance,  eyes  half  closed,  head 
critically  upon  one  side. 

"Satisfied?"     Blake  rose  more  slowly. 

"Perfectly.  It  is  clever — this!  It  has  imagination!" 
He  slipped  his  arm  confidingly  through  Blake's,  and  to- 
gether they  made  a  way  to  the  door. 

A  new  song  began  as  they  stepped  into  the  outer  room 
— the  tinkle  of  the  piano  came  thinly  across  the  smoke- 
laden  air.     Blake  paused  and  looked  back. 

"Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of  it?  A  trifle  dull, 
perhaps,  but  still — " 

"  Dull  ?  But  no !  Never!  I  could  work  here.  Others 
have  worked  here.  It  is  in  the  atmosphere — the  desire 
to  create." 

They  passed  into  the  street,  Blake  raising  his  hat  to 
a  stout  lady,  presumably  Madame  Fruvier,  who  sat 
wedged  behind  the  counter,  Max  glancing  greedily  at  the 
bold  rough  sketches,  the  brilliantly  Parisian  caricatures 
adorning  the  walls. 

"It  is  in  the  atmosphere!  One  breathes  it!"  he  said 
again,  as  they  walked  down  the  cool,  lighted  boulevard. 
"  I  feel  it  to-night  as  I  have  not  felt  it  before — the  ar- 
tist's Paris.  Mon  ami" — he  raised  a  glowing  face — ■ 
"mon  ami,  tell  me  something!  Do  you  think  I  shall 
succeed  ?  Do  you  think  I  possess  a  spark  of  the  great 
fire — a  spark  ever  so  tiny  ?' ' 

His  earnestness  was  almost  comical.     He  stopped  and 

140 


MAX 

arraigned  his  companion,  regardless  of  interested  glances 
and  passing  smiles. 

"Ned,  tell  me!     Tell  me!     Have  you  faith  in  me ?" 

Blake  looked  into  the  feverishly  bright  eyes,  and  a 
swift  conviction  possessed  him. 

"  I  know  this,  boy,  whatever  you  do,  you'll  do  it  finely! 
More  I  cannot  say." 

Max  fell  silent,  and  they  proceeded  on  their  way,  each 
preoccupied  with  his  own  thoughts.  At  the  turning  to 
the  heights  Blake  paused. 

"I'll  say  good-bye  here!  I  have  letters  to  write  to- 
night; but  I'll  be  up  to-morrow  to  spirit  you  off  to  lunch. 
I  won't  come  too  early,  for  I  know  what  you'll  be  doing 
all  the  morning." 

Max  laughed,  coming  back  out  of  his  dream.  "And 
what  is  it  I  shall  be  doing  all  the  morning?" 

"  Why,  carting  canvases  and  paint  tubes,  and  God 
knows  what,  up  those  steps  till  your  back  is  broken,  and 
then  settling  down  with  your  temper  and  your  ambition 
at  fever  heat  to  begin  the  great  picture  at  the  most  inop- 
portune moment  in  the  world !    Think  I  don't  know  you  ?" 

Max  laughed  again,  but  more  softly. 

"Men  ami!" 

"  I'm  right,  eh  ?  That  sketch  at  the  cabaret  is  meant 
to  grow?" 

Instantly  Max  was  diffident.  "  Oh,  I  am  not  so  sure! 
It  is  only  an  idea.     It  may  not  arrive  at  anything." 

"Let's  have  a  look?" 

Max's  hand  went  slowly  toward  his  pocket.  "I  am 
not  sure  that  I  like  it;  it  is  not  my  theory  of  life.  It's 
more  of  your  theory — it  is  ironical." 

"Let's  see!" 

The  sketch-book  came  reluctantly  to  light,  and  as 
Max  opened  it,  the  two  stepped  close  to  a  street  lamp. 

"  As  I  tell  you,  it  is  ironical.  If  it  becomes  a  picture 
10  141 


MAX 

I  shall  give  it  this  name — The  Failure"  He  handed  it 
to  Blake,  leaning  close  and  peering  over  his  shoulder  in 
nervous  anxiety. 

"  Understand,  it  is  but  an  idea!  I  have  put  no  work 
into  it." 

Blake  held  the  book  up  to  the  light,  his  observant  face 
grave  and  interested. 

"  What  a  clever  little  beggar  you  are !"  he  said  at  length. 

Max  glowed  at  the  words,  and  instantly  his  tongue  was 
loosed. 

"  Ah,  mon  cher,  but  it  is  only  a  sketch!  That  atmos- 
phere— that  dim,  smoky  atmosphere — is  so  difficult  with 
the  pencil.  The  audience  is,  of  course,  but  suggested; 
all  that  I  really  attempted  was  the  singer — the  failure 
with  the  merry  eyes." 

"  And  well  you've  caught  him  too,  by  gad !  One  would 
think  you  had  seen  the  antithesis — Vagot,  the  success, 
long  and  lean  and  yellow,  the  unhappiest-looking  man 
you  ever  saw." 

"Ah,  but  you  must  not  say  that!"  cried  Max  un- 
expectedly. "  I  told  you  it  was  not  my  theory.  To  me 
success  is  life,  failure  is  death!  This  is  but  a  reflected 
impression  of  yours — an  impression  of  irony!"  He  took 
the  sketch-book  from  Blake's  hands  and  closed  it  sharply; 
then,  to  ask  pardon  for  his  little  outburst,  he  smiled. 

"Mon  cher!  Forgive  me!  Come  to-morrow,  and  we 
will  see  if  day  has  thrown  new  light." 

They  shook  hands. 

"All  right — to-morrow!  Good-night,  boy — and  good 
luck!" 

"Good-night!" 

Max  stood  to  watch  the  tall  figure  disappear  into  the 
tangle  of  traffic,  then  with  a  light  step,  a  light  heart,  a 
light  sense  of  propitiated  fate,  he  began  the  climb  to 
his  home. 

142 


CHAPTER  XV 

THAT  night  the  pencil-sketch  obsessed  the  brain  of 
Max.  Tossing  wakeful  upon  his  bed,  he  saw  the 
pageant  of  the  future — touched  the  robe,  all  saffron  and 
silver,  of  the  goddess  Inspiration — and  with  the  brushes 
and  colors  of  imagination,  gained  to  the  gateway  of  fame. 

It  was  a  wild  night  that  spurred  to  action,  and  with  the 
coming  of  the  day,  Blake's  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  Be- 
fore the  Montmartre  shops  were  open,  he  was  seeking  the 
materials  of  his  art;  and  long  ere  the  sun  was  high,  he 
was  back  in  the  room  that  had  once  been  the  bedroom 
of  M.  Salas,  surrounded  by  the  disarray  of  the  inspired 
moment. 

The  room  was  small  but  lofty,  and  a  fine  light  made  his 
work  possible.  The  inevitable  wood  fire  crackled  on  the 
hearth,  but  otherwise  the  atmosphere  spoke  rigidly  of 
toil. 

Zeal,  endeavor,  ambition  in  its  youngest,  divinest 
form — these  were  the  suggestions  dormant  in  the  strewn 
canvases,  the  tall  easel,  the  bare  walls;  and  none  who 
were  to  know,  or  who  had  known,  Max — none  destined 
to  kindle  to  the  flame  of  his  personality,  ever  viewed  him 
in  more  characteristic  guise  than  he  appeared  on  that 
February  morning  clad  in  his  painting  smock,  the  lock 
of  hair  falling  over  his  forehead,  his  hands  trembling  with 
excitement,  as  he  executed  the  first  bold  line  that  meant 
the  birth  of  his  idea. 

So  remarkable,  so  characteristic  was  the  pose  that 

143 


MAX 

chance,  ever  with  an  eye  to  effect,  ordained  it  an  ob- 
server, for  scarcely  had  he  lost  himself  in  the  work  than 
the  door  of  his  studio  opened  with  a  Bohemian  lack  of 
ceremony,  and  his  neighbor,  Jacqueline — dressed  in  a 
blue  print  dress  that  matched  her  eyes — came  smiling 
into  the  room. 

"Good-day,  monsieur!" 

He  glowered  with  complete  unreserve. 
'You  are  displeased,  monsieur;    I  intrude?" 

"You  do,  mademoiselle." 

The  tone  was  uncompromising,  but  Jacqueline  came 
on,  softly  moving  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  easel,  looking 
from  the  canvas  to  Max  and  back  again  to  the  canvas 
in  an  amused,  secret  fashion  comprehensible  to  herself 
alone. 

'You  feel  like  my  poor  Lucien,  when  an  interruption 
offers  itself  to  his  work;  but,  as  I  say,  ennui  is  the  price 
of  admiration!     Is  it  not  so,  Monsieur  Max?" 

She  leaned  her  blonde  head  to  one  side,  and  looked  at 
him  with  the  naive  quality  of  meditation  that  so  became 
her. 

"Do  not  permit  me  to  disturb  you,  monsieur!  Con- 
tinue working." 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle!"  A  flicker  of  irony  was 
observable  in  the  tone  and,  with  exaggerated  zeal,  he 
returned  to  his  task. 

The  girl  came  softly  behind  him,  looking  over  his 
shoulder. 

"What  is  the  picture  to  be,  monsieur?" 

"  It  is  an  idea  caught  last  night  in  a  cabaret.  It 
would  not  interest  you." 

"And  why  not?" 

Max  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  on  blocking  in 
his  picture. 

"Because  it  is  a  psychological  study  —  a   side-issue 

144 


MAX 

of  existence.  Nothing  to  do  with  the  crude  facts  of 
life." 

" Oh!"  Jacqueline  drew  in  her  breath  softly.  "  I  am 
only  interested,  then,  in  the  crude  facts?  How  do  you 
arrive  at  that  conclusion,  monsieur?" 

"By  observation,  mademoiselle." 

"And  what  have  you  observed?" 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say  —  in  words.  In  a  picture  I 
would  put  it  like  this — a  blue  sky,  a  meadow  of  rank 
green  grass,  a  stream  full  of  forget-me-nots,  and  a  girl 
bending  over  it,  with  eyes  the  color  of  the  flowers.  Con- 
ventionality would  compel  me  to  call  it  Spring  or 
Youth!"     He  spoke  fast  and  he  spoke  contemptuously. 

She  watched  him,  her  head  still  characteristically 
drooping,  the  little  wise  smile  hovering  about  her  lips. 

"I  comprehend!"  she  murmured  to  herself.  "Mon- 
sieur is  very  worldly-wise.  Monsieur  has  discovered 
that  there  is — how  shall  I  say? — less  atmosphere  in  a 
blue  sky  than  in  a  gray  one  ?" 

Max  glanced  round  at  her.  He  had  the  uncomfort- 
able feeling  that  he  was  being  laughed  at,  but  her  clear 
azure  eyes  met  his  innocently,  and  her  mouth  was 
guiltless  of  smiles. 

"I  have  had  a  sufficiency  of  blue  sky,"  he  said,  and 
returned  to  his  work. 

"  One  is  liable  to  think  that,  monsieur,  until  the  rain 
falls!" 

"So  you  doubt  the  endurance  of  my  philosophy?" 

She  shrugged;  she  extended  her  pretty  hands  ex- 
pressively. 

"Monsieur  is  young!" 

The  words  exasperated  Max.  Again  it  had  arisen — 
the  old  argument.  The  anger  smouldering  in  his  heart 
since  the  girl's  invasion  flamed  to  speech. 

"  I  could  wish  that  the  world  was  less  ready  with  that 

M5 


MAX 

opinion,  mademoiselle!  It  knows  very  little  of  what  it 
says." 

"Possibly,  monsieur!  but  you  admit  that — that  you 
are  scarcely  aged."  There  was  a  quiver  now  about  the 
pretty  lips,  a  hint  of  a  laugh  in  the  eyes. 

"  Mademoiselle," — -he  wheeled  round  with  unexpected 
vehemence, — "  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  exactly  how 
old  you  think  I  am." 

"You  mean  it,  monsieur?" 

"  I  mean  it.  Is  it  seventeen — or  is  it  sixteen?"  His 
voice  was  edged  with  irony. 

"It  is  neither,  monsieur!"  Jacqueline  was  very  de- 
mure now,  her  eyes  sought  the  floor.  "  Granted  your 
full  permission,  monsieur,  I  would  say — " 

"You  would  say — ?" 

"  I  would  say" — she  flashed  a  daring  look  at  him  and 
instantly  dropped  her  eyes  again — "  I  would  say  that 
you  have  twenty- four,  if  not  twenty- five  years!" 

The  confession  came  in  a  little  rush  of  speech,  and  as 
it  left  her  lips  she  moved  toward  the  door,  contemplating 
flight. 

An  immense  surprise  clouded  Max's  mind,  a  surprise 
that  brought  the  blood  mantling  to  his  face  and  sent  his 
words  forth  with  a  stammering  indecision. 

"Twenty-four — twenty-five!  What  gave  you  that 
idea?" 

"Oh,  monsieur,  it  is  simple!  It  came  to  me  by  ob- 
servation!" 

Leaving  Max  still  red,  still  confused,  she  slipped  out 
of  the  room  noiselessly  as  she  had  come,  and  as  the  door 
closed  he  heard  the  faint,  exasperating  sound  of  a  light 
little  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AFTER  Jacqueline  had  closed  the  door  and  the  light 
laugh  had  died  into  silence,  Max  stood  before  his 
easel,  hands  inert,  the  flush  still  scorching  his  face.  For 
the  first  time  since  the  birth  of  the  new  life  he  had  been 
made  sensible  of  personal  criticism — the  criticism  winged 
with  fine  ridicule,  that  leaves  its  victim  strangely  un- 
certain, curiously  uneasy.  The  immemorial  subtlety  of 
woman  had  lurked  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  she  cast  her  last 
penetrating  glance  at  him.  He  felt  now,  as  he  stood 
alone,  that  his  soul  had  been  stripped  and  was  naked  to 
the  bare  walls  and  gaping  canvas,  and  his  start  was  one 
of  purely  unbalanced  nerves  when  a  knock  fell  upon  the 
door,  telling  of  a  new  intruder. 

He  had  all  but  cried  out  in  protest  when  the  door 
opened,  but  at  sight  of  the  invader  the  cry  merged  into 
an  unstrung  laugh  of  welcome. 

"Ned!     You?" 

Blake  walked  into  the  room,  talking  as  he  came. 
"Well,  upon  my  word!  Wasn't  I  right?  Here  he  is, 
easel  and  canvas  and  all — even  the  temper  isn't  want- 
ing!" 

Max  ran  forward,  caught  and  clung  to  his  arm. 

"  Mon  ami !  Mon  cher !  I  have  wanted  you — wanted 
you." 

"Anything  wrong?" 

"No!     No!     Nothing.     It  was  only — " 

"What?" 

M7 


MAX 

Again  Max  laughed  nervously,  but  his  fingers  tightened. 

"  Only  this — I  have  wanted  to  hear  you  say  that  I  am 
your  friend — your  boy,  Max — as  I  was  yesterday  and 
the  day  before  and  the  day  before.  Say  it!  Say  it!" 
His  eyes  besought  Blake's. 

"What!     Tell  you  you  are  yourself ?" 

He  nodded  quickly  and  seriously. 

The  other  looked  into  his  face,  and  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason  his  amusement  died  away. 

"What  a  child  it  is!"  he  said  kindly;  and,  putting  his 
hands  upon  the  boy's  shoulders,  he  shook  him  gently. 
"  Who  has  been  putting  notions  into  your  head  ?  Who- 
ever it  is,  just  refer  him  to  me;   I'll  deal  with  him." 

It  was  Max's  turn  to  laugh.  "Ah,  but  I  am  better 
now!  I  am  quite  all  right  now!  It  was  only  for  the 
moment!"  He  made  a  little  sound,  half  shy,  half  re- 
lieved. "It  was,  I  suppose,  as  you  expected;  I  tired 
myself  with  carrying  up  these  things,  and  then  I  still 
more  tired  myself  with  trying  to  block  in  my  picture, 
and  then — " 

"Yes,  then?" 

"No  more — nothing." 

"  I'm  sceptical  of  that." 

Max  glanced  up.  "Well,  to  you  I  always  say  the 
truth.  The  girl  Jacqueline  came  in  and  chattered  to 
me,  and — " 

"Oh,  ho!" 

"  Do  not  say  that !     I  cannot  bear  it." 

"Nonsense!  I'm  only  teasing  you!  Though  why  a 
little  girl  with  hair  like  spun  silk  and  skin  like  ivory — " 

"Ah!     You  admire  her,  then ?" 

"  I  do  vastly — in  the  abstract." 

"And  what  does  that  mean — in  the  abstract?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  suppose  it  means  that  if  I  were 
a  painter  I  might  use  her  as  a  model,  or  if  I  were  a  poet 

148 


MAX 

I  might  string  a  verse  to  her;  but  being  an  ordinary- 
man,  it  means — well,  it  means  that  I  don't  feel  drawn 
to  kiss  her.     Do  you  see?" 

"I  see."  Max  grew  thoughtful;  he  disengaged  the 
hands  still  lying  lightly  on  his  shoulders  and  walked  back 
to  his  easel. 

"  You  don't  a  bit !  But  it  doesn't  matter !  What  is  it 
you're  doing?" 

Max,  idle  before  his  canvas,  did  not  reply. 

"  Mon  ami?"  he  said,  irrelevantly. 

"What?" 

"  Tell  me  the  sort  of  woman  you  want  to  kiss." 

Blake  looked  round  in  surprise. 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  I  used  the  word  symbolically. 
I'm  a  queer  beggar,  you  know;  the  kiss  means  a  good 
deal  to  me.  To  me,  it's  the  key  to  the  idealistic  as  well 
as  the  materialistic — the  toll  at  the  gateway.  I  never 
kiss  the  light  woman." 

"  No  ?"  Max's  voice  was  very  low,  his  hands  hung  by 
his  sides,  the  look  in  his  half-veiled  eyes  was  strange. 
"Then  what  is  she  like  —  the  woman  you  would  kiss?" 

"  Oh,  she  has  no  bodily  form.  One  does  not  say  '  her 
hair  shall  be  black '  or  '  her  hair  shall  be  red '  any  more 
than  one  makes  an  image  of  God.  She  dwells  in  the 
mysterious.  Even  when  the  time  comes  and  she  steps 
into  reality,  mystery  will  still  cling  to  her.  There  must 
always  be  the  wonder — the  miracle."  He  spoke  softly, 
as  he  always  spoke  when  sentiment  entrapped  him.  His 
native  turn  of  thought  found  vent  at  these  odd  times  and 
made  him  infinitely  interesting.  The  slight  satire  that 
was  ordinarily  wont  to  twist  his  smile  was  smoothed 
away,  and  a  certain  sadness  stole  into  its  place ;  his  green 
eyes  lost  their  keenness  of  observation  and  looked  into  a 
space  obscure  to  others.  In  these  rare  moments  he  was 
essentially  of  his  race  and  of  his  country. 

149 


MAX 

"  No,"  he  added,  as  if  to  himself,  "  a  man  does  not  say 
' her  hair  shall  be  red'  or  ' her  hair  shall  be  black '  J" 

"  It  is  very  curious — very  strange — a  dream  like  that!" 
Max's  voice  was  a  mere  whisper. 

"Without  his  dreams,  man  would  be  an  animal." 

"And  you,  then,  wait  for  this  woman?  In  serious- 
ness you  wait,  and  believe  that  out  of  nothing  she  will 
come  to  you?" 

Blake  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  to  the  window, 
the  sadness,  the  aloofness  still  visible  in  his  face  like  the 
glow  from  a  shrouded  light. 

"That's  the  hardship  of  it,  boy — the  faith  that  it 
wants  and  the  patience  that  it  wants!  Sometimes  it 
takes  the  heart  out  of  a  man!  There're  days  when  I  feel 
like  a  derelict;  when  I  say  to  myself,  '  Here  I  am,  thirty- 
eight  years  old,  unanchored,  unharbored.'  Oh,  I  know 
I'm  young  as  the  world  counts  age!  I  know  that  plenty 
of  men  and  women  like  me,  and  that  I  pass  the  time  of 
day  to  plenty  as  I  go  along!  But  all  the  same,  if  I  died 
to-morrow  there  isn't  one  would  break  a  heart  over  me. 
Not  a  solitary  cne.  ' 

"Do  not  say  that!" 

"  It's  true,  all  the  same!  Sometimes  I  say  to  myself, 
'What  a  fool  you  are,  Ned  Blake!  The  Almighty  gives 
reality  to  some  and  dreams  to  some,  and  who  knows  but 
your  lot  is  to  go  down  to  your  grave  hugging  empty 
hopes,  like  your  forefathers  before  you!'  It's  terrible, 
sometimes,  the  way  the  heart  goes  out  of  a  man!" 

"Ned!  Ned!  Do  not  say  that!"  Max's  vcice  was 
strangely  troubled,  strangely  unlike  itself,  so  unlike  and 
troubled  that  it  wakened  Blake  to  self-consciousness. 

"  I'm  talking  rank  nonsense!     I'm  a  fool!" 
"You  are  not!"     The  boy  ran  across  to  him  impul- 
sively;  then  paused,  mute  and  shy. 
"What  is  it,  boy?" 

150 


MAX 

"Only  that  what  you  say  is  not  the  truth.  If  you 
were  to  die,  there  is  one  person  who  would — " 

Blake's  face  softened.     He  was  surprised  and  touched. 

"What?     You'd  care?" 

Max  nodded. 

"Thank  you,  boy!     Thank  you  for  that!" 

They  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  through  the 
uncurtained  window  at  the  February  breezes  ruffling  the 
holly  bushes  in  the  plantation,  each  unusually  aware  of 
the  other's  presence,  each  unusually  self-conscious. 

"  But  if  it  comes  to  pass — your  miracle — you  will  for- 
get me  ?  You  will  no  longer  have  need  of  me,  is  that 
not  so?" 

Max  spoke  softly,  a  disproportionate  seriousness  dark- 
ening his  eyes,  causing  his  voice  to  quiver. 

Blake  turned  to  answer  in  the  same  vein,  but  some- 
thing checked  him — some  embarrassment,  some  inex- 
plicable doubt  of  himself. 

"Boy,"  he  said,  sharply,  "we're  running  into  deep 
waters.  Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  steer  for  shore  ? 
I  came  to  smoke,  you  know,  and  watch  you  at  your 
work." 

The  words  acted  as  a  charm.  Max  threw  up  his  head 
and  gave  a  little  laugh,  a  trifle  high,  a  shade  hysterical. 

"But,  of  course!  But,  of  course!  I  believe  I,  too,  was 
falling  into  a  dream ;  and  the  dream  comes  after,  the  work 
first,  is  it  not  so  ?  The  work  first;  the  work  always  first. 
Place  another  log  upon  the  fire  and  begin  to  smoke,  and 
I  swear  to  you  that  before  the  day  is  finished  I  will  make 
you  proud  of  me.     I  swear  it  to  you!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THERE  is  impetus,  if  not  necessarily  inspiration  in 
a  goading  thought,  and  Max  returned  to  his  in- 
terrupted task  with  a  zeal  almost  in  excess  of  his  protes- 
tations. He  worked  with  vigor — with  an  exuberant  dar- 
ing that  seemed  to  suggest  that  the  creation  of  his 
picture  was  rather  the  creation  of  a  mental  narcotic  than 
the  expression  of  an  idea. 

He  had  given  rein  to  sentiment  in  the  moment  with 
Blake,  and  now  he  was  applying  the  curb,  working  in- 
cessantly— never  pausing  to  speak — never  casting  a 
glance  at  the  corner  where  his  companion  was  smoking 
and  dreaming  over  the  fire. 

To  the  casual  observer  it  might  have  seemed  a  scene 
of  ideal  comradeship ;  yet  in  the  minds  of  the  comrades 
there  lurked  an  uneasiness,  an  uncertainty  not  lightly 
to  be  placed — not  easily  to  be  clothed  in  words.  A 
certain  warmth  was  stirring  in  Blake's  heart,  coupled 
with  a  certain  wonder  at  his  sudden  discovery  of  the 
depth  of  the  boy's  regard;  while  in  the  boy's  own  soul  a 
tumult  of  feelings  ran  riot. 

Shame  burned  him  that  he  should  have  confessed 
himself;  amazement  seared  him  that  the  confession  had 
been  there  to  make.  A  bewildering  annoyance  filled 
him — a  first  doubting  of  the  ego  he  was  cherishing  with 
so  fine  a  care. 

It  is  indeed  a  black  moment  when  an  egoist  doubts 
himself;    it  is  as  if  the  god  within  the  temple  became 

152 


MAX 

self-conscious;  more,  it  is  as  if  the  god  rent  down  the 
veil  before  the  shrine  and  showed  himself  a  thing  of  clay 
to  his  astonished  worshippers. 

The  mind  of  Max  was  a  complex  study  as  he  worked 
with  his  new-found  vehemence,  expressing  or  crushing  a 
thought  with  each  bold  stroke.  He  prided  himself  upon 
his  powers  of  self- analysis ;  and,  being  possessed  as  well 
of  honesty  and  of  a  measure  of  common  sense,  the 
mental  picture  that  confronted  him  was  scarcely  pleasant 
seeing.  Doubt  of  himself — of  his  own  omnipotence — 
had  assailed  him;  and,  being  young,  being  spoiled  of  the 
world,  it  found  expression  in  bitter  resentment. 

Having  continued  his  onslaught  upon  the  canvas  until 
midday  was  close  at  hand,  he  suddenly  astonished  the 
unoffending  Blake  by  flinging  his  charcoal  from  him  to 
the  furthest  end  of  the  room,  where  it  broke  rudely 
against  the  spotless  wall-paper. 

"  God  bless  my  soul!"  Blake  turned,  to  see  an  angry 
figure  striding  to  the  window,  his  hair  ruffled,  his  hands 
thrust  deep  into  his  trouser  pockets. 

"What  in  God's  name  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

There  was  no  answer  and,  being  a  wise  man,  he  did 
not  press  the  point. 

Presently,  as  he  expected,  the  boyish  figure  wheeled 
round. 

"  I  cannot  work.     It  is  all  bad!     All  wrong!" 

He  rose  slowly  and  began  to  walk  toward  the  easel, 
but  with  a  cry  the  boy  ran  forward  and  intercepted 
him. 

"  No!  No!  No!  It  is  bad,  I  tell  you — you  must  hot 
see.  Look!  This  is  what  I  shall  do.  This!"  He 
turned  and,  swift  as  lightning,  snapped  up  a  knife,  and 
before  Blake  could  find  a  gesture  or  a  word,  ripped  his 
canvas  from  end  to  end. 

"  Upon  my  word!     Well,  upon  my  word!     There's  an 

153 


MAX 

extravagant  young  devil!     Why,  in  the  name  of  God, 
would  you  destroy  your  canvas  like  that?" 

"Why?  Because,  my  friend,  I  am  I!  I  do  not  work 
again  upon  a  thing  that  I  have  marred!"  His  voice 
shook,  trembling  between  excited  laughter  and  tears. 

Blake  looked  at  him.  "  Bless  my  soul,  if  he  isn't  cry- 
ing!    Come  here  to  me!     You're  a  baby!" 

But  Max  turned  on  him,  so  furious  that  the  hot  anger 
in  his  eyes  scorched  the  tears  that  hung  there. 

"  A  baby  ?  This  much  a  baby,  that  I  love  my  work  so 
truly  that  I  have  set  it  upon  an  altar  and  made  it  my 
religion!  And  when  I  find,  as  to-day,  that  it  fails  me 
I  am  damned — my  soul  is  lost!" 

"And  why  does  it  fail  you — to-day?" 

"I  do  not  know!" 

"Is  that  the  truth?" 

"Yes,  it  is." 

"  Are  you  perfectly  sure  ?  Are  you  perfectly  sure  that 
'tisn't  I — my  presence  here — ?" 

"You?"  Max  withered  him  with  a  scorn  meant  for 
himself  as  well.  "  You  rate  yourself  high,  my  friend, 
and  you  imagine  my  work  a  very  trivial  thing!" 

"  Nonsense!     Plenty  of  artists  must  have  solitude." 

"  Plenty  of  fools  1  An  artist  is  engrossed  in  his  art  so 
perfectly  that  when  he  stands  before  his  canvas  no  world 
exists  but  the  world  of  his  imagination.  Do  you  suppose 
me  to  be  affected  because  you  sit  somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground, smoking  over  the  fire ?  Oh,  no!  I  trust  I  have 
more  capacity  to  concentrate!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  to  the  ears;  he  raised  his 
eyebrows  in  the  very  elaboration  of  indifference. 

Blake,  hot  as  he  in  pride  or  anger,  caught  sudden  fire. 

"Upon  my  soul,  you're  damned  complimentary!  I 
think,  if  you  have  no  objection,  I'll  be  wishing  you 
good-day!"     He  picked  up  his  hat,  and  strode  to  the  door. 

154 


look!     this   is   what   i   shall  do.      this!' 


MAX 

The  action  was  so  abrupt,  the  offence  so  real,  that  it 
sobered  Max.  With  a  sudden  collapse  of  pride,  he 
wheeled  round. 

"Ned!     Oh,  Ned!" 

But  the  banging  of  the  outer  door  was  his  only  an- 
swer; and  he  drew  back,  his  face  fallen  to  a  sudden 
blankness  of  expression,  his  hand  going  out  as  if  for 
support  to  the  tattered  canvas. 

Minutes  passed — how  many  or  how  few  he  made  no 
attempt  to  reckon — then  a  tap  fell  on  the  door  and  his 
blood  leaped,  leaped  and  dropped  back  to  a  sick  pulsa- 
tion of  disappointment,  as  the  door  opened  and  Jacque- 
line's fair  head  appeared. 

For  an  instant  a  fierce  resentment  at  this  new  intrusion 
fired  him,  then  the  absorbing  need  for  human  sympathy 
welled  up,  drowning  all  else. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  cried  out,  "I  am  the  most  un- 
happy person  in  all  the  world;  I  have  tried  to  make  a 
picture  and  failed,  and  I  have  quarrelled  with  my  best 
friend!" 

Jacqueline  nodded  sagely.  "That,  M.  Max,  is  my 
excuse  for  intruding.  Of  the  picture,  of  course,  I  know 
nothing" — she  shrugged  expressively — "but  of  the 
quarrel  I  understand  all — having  passed  M.  Blake  upon 
the  stairs!" 

At  any  other  moment  Max  would  have  resented  in 
swift  and  explicit  terms  this  probing  of  his  private  con- 
cerns; but  the  soreness  at  his  heart  was  too  acute  to 
permit  of  pride. 

"  Then  you  are  sorry  for  me,  mademoiselle  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur!" 

"  Because  of  my  spoiled  picture  ?"  Waywardness 
nickered  up  momentarily 

"No,  monsieur!" 

"Then  why?" 

iS5 


MAX 

Jacqueline  glanced  up  swiftly,  then  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  Because,  monsieur — being  but  a  woman — I  say  to 
myself  '  life  is  long,  and  other  pictures  may  be  painted ; 
but  with  love — or  friendship — '" 

"Mademoiselle,  that  is  sufficient!  You  are  charming 
— you  are  sympathetic — but,  like  many  others,  you 
place  too  great  a  value  upon  those  words  'love'  and 
'  friendship.'  It  is  like  this!  If  I  quarrel  with  my  friend 
it  is  doubtless  sad,  but  it  only  affects  myself;  if,  on  the 
contrary,  I  paint  a  bad  picture  I  am  making  a  blot  upon 
a  beautiful  world!" 

"And  what  of  the  heart,  monsieur?  May  there  not 
be  sad  stains  upon  the  heart — even  if  no  eyes  see  them  ?" 

"  Now,  mademoiselle,  you  are  talking  sentiment!" 

"And  you,  monsieur,  are  materialistic?"  For  a 
second  a  flash  of  mischief  showed  in  the  blue  eyes. 

Max  stiffened  his  shoulders;  made  brave  show  to  hide 
the  detestable  ache  in  his  soul. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  said.  "I  think,  without 
pride,  I  may  claim  to  see  life  wholly,  without  idealiza- 
tion." 

Quite  unexpectedly  Jacqueline  clapped  her  hands  and 
laughed,  stepping  close  to  him  with  an  engaging  air  of 
mystery. 

"Then  all  is  well!     I  have  a  physic  for  all  your  ills!" 

He  looked  distrustful. 

"A  physic?" 

"  This,  monsieur — that  you  put  aside  the  great  sorrow 
of  your  picture,  and  the  little  sorrow  of  your  friend — and 
step  across  and  partake  of  dejeuner  with  Lucien  and  me. 
A  very  special  dejeuner,  I  assure  you;  no  less  than  a 
poulet  bonne  femme,  cooked  with  a  care — " 

She  threw  out  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  expression,  a 
portrayal  of  the  artless  greed  that  had  more  than  once 
brought  a  smile  to  the  boy's  lips.     But  this  time  no 

156 


MAX 

amusement  was  called  up ;  disgust  rose  strong  within  him 
and,  accompanying  it,  a  certainty  that  were  Jacqueline's 
chicken  to  be  laid  before  him,  he  must  assuredly  choke 
with  the  first  morsel.  One  does  not  eat  when  one  has 
failed  in  one's  art — or  quarrelled  with  one's  best  friend ! 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "you  are  kind 
— and  I  am  not  without  appreciation.  But  to-day  I 
have  no  appetite — food  does  not  call  to  me.  Doubtless, 
there  are  days  when  M.  Cartel  cannot  eat."  He  strove 
to  force  a  laugh. 

Jacqueline  looked  humorously  grave. 

"When  Lucien  cannot  work,  monsieur,  he  eats  the 
more!  It  is  only  on  the  days  when  work  flows  from 
him  that  I  am  compelled  to  drag  him  to  the  table — those 
days  or,  perhaps,  the  days — "     She  stopped  discreetly. 

"What  days,  mademoiselle?" 

For  the  gratification  of  a  curiosity  he  condemned, 
Max  put  the  question. 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  when  some  little  affair  arises  upon 
which  he  and  I  dispute — when  some  cloud,  as  it  were, 
darkens  the  sun."  She  continued  to  look  down  de- 
murely; then  quickly  she  looked  up  again.  "But  I 
waste  your  time !  And,  besides,  I  have  not  finished  what 
I  would  say." 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle,  I  beg — " 

"  It  is  not  of  the  poulet  that  I  would  speak,  monsieur! 
I  understand  that  artists  are  not  all  alike;  and  that, 
whereas  bad  work  gives  Lucien  an  appetite,  it  gives  you 
a  disgust!  Still,  you  are  a  philosopher,  and  will  allow 
others  to  eat,  even  if  you  will  not  eat  yourself." 

Max  looked  bewildered. 

Good!"     Jacqueline  clapped  her  hands  again  softly. 
I  knew  I  would  find  success!     I  said  I  would  find 
success!" 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  I  do  not  understand." 
11  iS7 


M 


MAX 

"No,  monsieur!  Neither  did  M.  Blake,  when  I  met 
him  upon  the  stairs,  and  told  him  of  my  poulet.  He 
also,  it  seems,  had  lost  his  appetite.  Your  picture  must 
have  been  truly  bad!" 

She  discreetly  toyed  with  her  belt  during  the  accepted 
space  of  time  in  which  a  brain  can  conceive — a  heart 
leap — to  an  overmastering  joy;  then  she  looked  again 
at  Max. 

11  It  is  a  little  idea  of  my  own,  monsieur,  that  you 
and  M.  6douard  should  make  the  acquaintance  of  my 
Lucien.  M.  Edouard  already  consents;  I  hope  that  you, 
monsieur — " 

For  answer,  Max  caught  her  hand.  From  that  mo- 
ment he  loved  her — her  prettiness,  her  mischief,  her 
humanity. 

"Mademoiselle!  I  do  not  understand — and  I  do  un- 
derstand!" 

"  But  you  will  come,  monsieur  ?" 

"  I  will  eat  your  chicken,  mademoiselle — even  to  the 
bones!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

COMRADESHIP  in  its  broader  sense  is  Bohemianism 
at  its  best;  Bohemianism,  not  as  it  is  imagined  by 
the  dilettante — a  thing  of  picturesque  penury  and  exotic 
vice — but  a  spontaneous  intermingling  of  personalities, 
an  understanding,  a  fraternity  as  purely  a  gift  of  the 
gods  as  love  or  beauty. 

It  is  true  that  the  sense  of  regained  happiness  beat 
strong  in  the  mind  of  Max  when  he  followed  Jacqueline 
into  her  unpicturesque  living-room  with  its  sparse,  cheap 
furniture,  its  piano  and  its  gas  stove,  and  that  the  happi- 
ness budded  and  blossomed  like  a  flower  in  the  sun  at 
the  one  swift  glance  exchanged  with  Blake;  but  even 
had  these  factors  not  been  present,  he  must  still  have 
been  sensible  of  the  pretty  touch  of  hospitality  patent 
in  the  girl's  manner  the  moment  she  crossed  her  own 
threshold,  conscious  of  the  friendly  smile  of  M.  Lucien 
Cartel,  typical  artist,  typical  Frenchman  of  the  southern 
provinces — short,  swarthy,  alive  from  his  coarse  black 
hair  to  the  square  tips  of  his  fingers.  It  was  in  the  air 
— the  sense  of  good-will — the  desire  for  conviviality ;  and 
in  the  first  greeting,  the  first  hand-shake,  the  relations  of 
the  party  were  established. 

But  the  true  note  of  this  Bohemianism  is  not  so  much 
spontaneous  friendship  as  a  spontaneous  capacity  for 
the  interchange  of  thought  —  that  instant  opening  of 
mind  to  mind,  when  place  becomes  of  slight,  and  time 
of  no  importance. 

159 


MAX 

Such  an  atmosphere  was  created  by  M.  Lucien  Cartel 
in  his  poor  Montmartre  appartement,  and  under  its  spell 
Max  and  Blake  fell  as  surely,  as  luxuriously  as  they 
might  have  fallen  under  the  spell  of  a  summer  day.  It 
was  not  that  M.  Cartel  was  brilliant;  his  only  capacity 
for  brilliance  lay  in  his  strong,  square  hands;  but  he  was 
a  good  fellow  and  possessed  of  a  philosophy  that  at  once 
challenged  and  interested.  For  Church  and  State  he 
had  a  wide  contempt,  a  scoffing  raillery,  a  candid  blas- 
phemy that  outraged  orthodoxy:  for  humanity  and  for 
his  art  he  owned  an  enthusiasm  touching  on  the  sublime. 
Upon  every  subject— the  meanest  and  the  most  pro- 
found— he  held  an  opinion  and  aired  it  with  superb 
frankness  and  incredible  fluency.  So  it  was  that,  when 
the  poulet  bonne  femme  had  been  picked  to  the  bones  and 
Jacqueline  had  retired  to  some  sanctum  whence  the 
clatter  of  plates  and  the  sound  of  running  water  told  of 
domestic  duties,  the  three  pushed  their  chairs  back  from 
the  table  and  fell  to  talk. 

Precisely  how  they  talked,  precisely  what  they  talked 
of  in  that  pleasant  period  subsequent  to  the  meal  is  not 
to  be  related.  They  thrashed  the  paths  of  morality, 
science,  religion  until  their  contending  voices  filled  the 
room  and  the  tobacco  smoke  hung  in  clouds  about  them. 
They  talked  until  the  last  drop  of  Jacqueline's  coffee 
had  been  drained;  they  talked  until  Jacqueline  herself 
came  silently  back  into  the  room  and  seated  herself  by 
Cartel's  side,  slipping  her  hand  into  his  with  artless 
spontaneity. 

Morality,  science,  religion,  and  then,  in  natural 
sequence,  art — music!  The  brain  of  M.  Cartel  tingled, 
his  fingers  twitched  as  the  rival  merits  of  composers — 
the  varying  schools  of  thought — were  touched  upon, 
warmed  to,  or  torn  by  contending  opinions.  One  end 
only  was  conceivable  to  that  last  discussion.     The  mo- 

160 


MAX 

ment  arrived  when  the  brain  of  M.  Cartel  cried  vehe- 
mently for  expression,  when  his  hand,  imprisoned  in  the 
small  fingers  of  Jacqueline,  was  no  longer  to  be  restrained, 
when  he  sprang  from  his  chair  and  rushed  to  the  piano, 
his  coarse  black  hair  an  untidy  mat,  his  ugly  face  alight 
with  God's  gift  of  inspiration. 

'  What  had  he  said  ?  Was  this,  then,  not  magnificent 
— wonderful  ?' 

And,  seating  himself,  he  unloosed  into  the  common 
room  a  beauty  of  sound  more  adorning  than  the  rarest 
devices  of  the  decorator's  art — a  mesh  of  delicate  har- 
monies that  snared  the  imaginations  of  his  three  listeners 
and  sent  them  winging  to  the  very  borders  of  their  vary- 
ing realms. 

M.  Lucien  Cartel  in  every-day  life  and  to  the  casual 
observer  was  a  good  fehow  with  a  fund  of  enthusiasm  and 
a  ready  tongue;  M.  Lucien  Cartel  to  the  woman  he 
loved  and  in  the  enchanted  world  of  his  art  was  a  mortal 
imbued  warmly  and  surely  with  a  spark  of  the  divinity 
he  derided.  There  is  no  niggardliness  in  Bohemia:  it 
made  him  as  happy  to  give  of  his  music  as  it  made  his 
listeners  to  receive,  with  the  consequence  that  time  was 
dethroned  and  that  four  people  sat  entranced,  claiming 
nothing  from  the  world  outside,  more  than  content  in 
the  knowledge  that  the  world  had  no  eyes  for  the  doings 
of  a  little  room  on  the  heights  of  Montmartre. 

From  opera  to  opera  M.  Cartel  wandered,  now  hum- 
ming a  passage  under  his  breath  in  accompaniment  to 
his  playing,  again  raising  his  soft,  southern  voice  in  an 
abandonment  of  enthusiasm. 

It  was  following  close  upon  some  such  enthusiastic 
moment  that  Max  rose,  crossed  the  room,  and  taking  a 
violin  and  bow  from  where  they  lay  upon  a  wooden 
bench  against  the  wall,  carried  them  silently  to  the 
piano. 

161 


MAX 

As  silently  M.  Cartel  received  them  and,  lifting  the 
violin,  tucked  it  under  his  chin  and  raised  the  bow. 

There  is  no  need  to  detail  the  magic  that  followed  upon 
that  simple  action.  The  world — even  his  own  Paris — 
has  never  heard  of  M.  Lucien  Cartel,  and  cares  not  to 
know  of  the  pieces  that  he  played,  the  degree  of  his 
technique,  the  truth  of  his  interpretation;  but  when  at 
last  the  hand  that  held  the  violin  dropped  to  his  side 
and,  lifting  his  right  arm,  he  wiped  his  damp  forehead 
with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  the  faces  of  his  audience  were 
pale  as  the  faces  of  those  who  have  looked  upon  hidden 
places,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  Jacqueline  there  were 
tears. 

A  moment  of  silence;  then  M.  Cartel  laid  down  his 
violin  and  laughed.  The  laugh  broke  the  spell :  Jacque- 
line, with  a  childish  cry  of  excitement,  flew  across  the 
room  and,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  him 
with  unashamed  fervor;  Blake  and  Max  pressed  round 
the  piano,  and  in  an  instant  the  room  was  humming  again 
to  the  sound  of  voices,  and  some  one  made  the  astound- 
ing discovery  that  it  was  five  o'clock. 

This  was  Blake's  opportunity — the  opportunity  loved 
beyond  all  others  of  the  Irishman,  when  it  is  permissible 
to  offer  hospitality.  The  idea  came  to  him  as  an  inspira- 
tion, and  was  seized  upon  as  such.  Eager  as  a  boy,  he 
laid  one  hand  on  Max's  shoulder,  the  other  on  that  of 
M.  Cartel. 

'  He  had  a  suggestion  to  make !  One  that  admitted  of 
no  refusal!  M.  Cartel  had  entertained  them  regally;  he 
must  suffer  them  to  make  some  poor  return.  There  was 
a  certain  little  cafe  where  the  chef  knew  his  business  and 
the  wine  really  was  wine — '  He  looked  from  one  face 
to  another  for  approval,  and  perhaps  it  was  but  natural 
that  his  eyes  should  rest  last  and  longest  on  the  face  of 
Max. 

162 


MAX 

So  it  was  arranged.  A  dinner  is  a  question  readily 
dealt  with  in  the  quarter  of  Montmartre,  and  soon  the 
four — laughing,  talking,  arguing — were  hurrying  down 
the  many  steps  of  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie,  bent 
upon  the  enjoyment  of  the  hour. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THEY  dined  with  a  full  measure  of  satisfaction;  for 
with  his  invitation  to  a  feast,  your  Parisian  accepts 
an  obligation  to  bring  forth  his  best  in  gayety,  in  con- 
versation, in  good-will ;  and  it  might  well  have  happened 
that  Blake,  spending  ten  times  as  much  money  upon 
guests  of  his  own  world,  might  have  lacked  the  glow, 
the  sense  of  success,  that  filled  him  in  the  giving  of  this 
dinner  to  an  unknown  musician  and  a  little  blonde- 
haired  Montmartroise. 

They  dined;  and  then,  because  the  winds  were  still 
wintry  and  coffee  could  not  yet  be  sipped  outside  cafe 
doors,  they  betook  themselves  to  the  little  theatre  of  the 
'Trianon  Lyrique'  on  the  Boulevard  Rochechouart, 
where  for  an  infinitesimal  sum  the  bourgeoisie  may  sit  in 
the  stalls  and  hear  light  opera  conscientiously  sung. 

As  it  was  a  gala  evening,  Blake  reserved  a  box,  and 
the  little  Jacqueline  sat  in  the  place  of  honor,  neat  and 
dainty  to  the  point  of  perfection,  with  a  small  black 
jacket  fitting  closely  to  her  figure,  and  a  bunch  of  violets, 
costing  ten  centimes,  pinned  coquettishly  into  her  lace 
jabot.  They  sat  through  the  performance  in  a  happy 
mood  of  toleration,  applauding  whenever  applause 
might  be  bestowed,  generously  silent  when  anything 
tempted  adverse  criticism;  and  between  the  acts  they 
smoked  and  drank  liqueurs  in  company  with  the  good 
Montmartre  shopkeepers — the  soldiers — the  young  clerks 
and  the  young  girls  who  formed  the  crowd  in  the  lounge. 

164 


MAX 

But  all  things  end ;  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act  of 
Les  Cloches  de  Corneville,  and  not  without  a  pleasant, 
passing  sigh,  the  four  left  the  theatre. 

The  boulevard  teemed  with  life  as  they  made  their 
way  into  the  open ;  a  certain  intoxication  seemed  blown 
along  the  thoroughfare  on  the  light  spring  wind ;  a  rest- 
less energy  tingled  in  the  blood. 

On  the  steps  of  the  little  theatre,  Blake  looked  back 
at  his  party. 

'The  night  was  young!  What  would  they  say  to 
supper  ?' 

Jacqueline's  eyes  sparkled,  but  she  looked  at  M.  Cartel, 
and  regretfully  M.  Cartel  shook  his  head. 

'  Alas !  He  was  expecting  a  friend — a  composer,  to 
call  upon  him  before  midnight.' 

Jacqueline  betrayed  no  disappointment ;  with  a  charm- 
ing air  she  echoed  the  regret,  the  shake  of  the  head,  and 
slipped  a  confiding  hand  through  M.  Cartel's  arm. 

Then  followed  the  leave-taking — the  thanks  and  dis- 
claimers— the  promises  of  future  meetings — and  at  last 
the  lovers  moved  out  into  the  crowd — M.  Cartel,  cheery 
and  brisk,  humming  the  tunes  of  '  Les  Cloches,'  the  little 
Jacqueline  clinging  to  his  arm,  smiling  up  into  his  ugly 
face. 

Max  watched  them  for  a  moment  with  a  deep  intent- 
ness,  then  wheeled  round  swiftly  and  caught  Blake's 
arm. 

"Ned!  Take  me  somewhere!  I  would  forget  my- 
self!" 

'What  troubles  you,  boy?  Not  the  thought  of  the 
picture?" 

"  No!  A  something  of  no  consequence.  Do  not  ques- 
tion me.  Be  kind  to  me,  and  take  me  where  I  can  see 
life  and  forget  myself." 

"Where  will  I  take  you?" 

165 


MAX 

"To  some  place  of  gayety — where  no  one  thinks." 

"  Very  well !  We'll  go  over  and  have  supper  at  the 
Rat  Mort.  You  won't  be  over-troubled  with  thought 
there.  We  can  sit  in  a  corner  and  observe,  and  I  give 
you  my  word  there  will  be  no  encounters  with  old  friends 
this  time!  I'll  be  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  if  anything 
is  washed  up  from  the  past!" 

Guiding  the  boy  across  the  crowded  roadway,  he 
passed  through  the  narrow  door  and  up  the  steep  stair 
that  ends  so  abruptly  into  the  long,  low  supper-room  of 
the  Rat  Mort. 

Max  felt  the  abruptness  of  this  entry,  as  so  many 
climbers  of  the  ladder-like  stairs  have  felt  it  before  him ; 
and  a  dazed  sensation  seized  upon  him  as  the  wild 
Ztigane  music  of  the  stringed  orchestra  beat  suddenly 
upon  his  ears  and  the  intense  white  light  struck  upon  his 
sight. 

He  felt  it  as  others  have  felt  it — the  excitement,  the 
consciousness  of  an  emotional  atmosphere — as  he  fol- 
lowed Blake  down  the  dazzingly  bright  room.  It  was 
in  the  air,  as  it  had  been  at  the  Bal  Tabarin. 

As  they  seated  themselves,  the  barbaric  music  ceased; 
the  orchestra  broke  forth  afresh  with  a  light  Parisian 
waltz,  and  down  between  the  lines  of  tables  came  a  negro 
and  a  negress — properties  of  the  place,  as  were  the 
glasses  and  the  table  linen — waltzing  with  the  pliant 
suppleness,  the  conscious  sensuality  of  their  race,  and 
close  behind  them  followed  a  second  couple — a  Spaniard, 
restless  and  lithe,  small  of  stature  and  pallid  of  face,  and 
a  young  Spanish  girl  of  splendid  physique. 

Max  sat  silent,  attentive  to  this  dance,  while  Blake 
ordered  supper;  but  when  the  wine  was  brought,  he 
lifted  his  glass  and  drank,  as  if  some  strong  sensation 
had  dried  his  throat. 

Blake  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

166 


MAX 

"Well?     Is  it  amusing?" 

"  It  is — and  it  is  not.  Those  black  creatures  are  ex- 
traordinary. They  are  repulsive — like  figures  in  a 
nightmare." 

"Oh!  Repulsive,  are  they?  And  what  about  a  cer- 
tain picture  we  once  looked  at — when  I  was  swept  off 
the  face  of  the  earth  for  using  that  same  word?  I  be- 
lieve, you  know,  that  points  of  view  are  changing!  I 
believe  I'm  coming  to  part  two  of  my  little  book!  These 
niggers  aren't  a  bit  more  disgusting  than  the  monkey 
sucking  the  fruit." 

Max  glanced  at  him,  laughed  a  trifle  self-consciously 
and  drank  some  more  wine.  "  Let  us  forget  monkeys 
and  little  books  and  all  such  stupidities.  There  is  a 
pretty  woman  over  there!  Make  me  a  story  concerning 
her."  He  nodded  toward  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

Blake,  looking,  saw  a  slim  woman  in  white,  whose  large 
hat  threw  a  becoming  shadow  on  auburn  hair  and  red- 
brown  eyes. 

"  Ah,  now,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  you've  given  me 
too  much  to  do!  At  a  first  glance  I'd  say  she's  just  the 
ordinary  better-class  cocotte;  but  at  a  second  glance  it 
seems  to  me  I'd  pause.  There's  something  about  the 
eyes — there's  something  about  the  mouth  that  puzzles 
me.  You'll  have  to  wait,  my  boy,  and  let  fate  tell  you 
your  fairy  tale!" 

Trained  in  the  consciousness  of  regard,  the  woman 
they  discussed  looked  across  at  them  as  Blake  ceased, 
and  the  flicker  of  a  smile  touched  her  lips — a  smile  of 
interest  in  which  there  lurked  no  hint  of  invitation. 

"Ah,  wasn't  I  right!  She  discriminates — our  auburn 
lady!  We'll  see  something  interesting  before  the  night 
is  out,  mark  my  words!" 

They  half  forgot  her  and  her  possible  story  in  the  hour 

167 


MAX 

that  followed,  though  Max  noted  that  the  woman  who 
wanders  from  party  to  party  at  the  Rat  Mort,  distribut- 
ing roses,  paused  twice  by  her  table  and  spoke  to  her, 
each  time  departing  without  unburdening  herself  of  her 
wares;  also,  he  noted  that  the  pallid  little  Spaniard, 
who  had  been  scattering  his  attentions  among  the  ladies 
unprovided  with  companions,  came  and  bowed  before 
her,  and  that,  contrary  to  her  impression  of  aloofness, 
she  rose  and  danced  a  waltz  with  him. 

At  this  episode  of  the  dance,  Blake's  eyes  as  well  as 
the  boy's  were  attracted;  and,  as  she  glided  up  and 
down  between  the  tables,  cool,  unmoved,  seemingly  in- 
different to  the  world  about  her,  his  interest  reawakened, 
and  he  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  Max. 

"Wait!"  he  said.  "When  you  see  that  guarded  look 
in  a  woman's  eyes,  you  may  always  know  she's  expect- 
ing something." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  she  returned  to  her  solitary  table, 
dismissing  the  Spaniard  with  an  inclination  of  the  head 
and,  as  she  seated  herself,  both  observers  saw  a  change 
pass  over  her  face — saw  her  gaze  narrow  and  turn  tow- 
ard the  door — saw  a  faint  flush  touch  her  cheeks  and  re- 
cede, leaving  them  paler  than  before. 

It  was  a  controlled  emotion,  almost  imperceptible — 
differing  in  essence  from  either  the  latent  violence  of  the 
woman  Lize  or  the  artless  impulsiveness  of  the  little 
Jacqueline;  but  with  certain  intuition  it  sent  Max's 
glance  winging  to  the  door  of  the  supper-room,  assured 
that  some  issue  in  the  subtle  war  of  sex  was  about  to  be 
fought  out. 

A  new  party  was  entering  the  room — a  small  dark 
Parisienne,  bringing  in  her  wake  two  Englishmen — one 
brown — the  other  fair,  with  the  accepted  Saxon  fairness. 

Down  the  long  room  the  little  lady  came,  ushered  by 
obsequious  waiters,  the  recipient  of  many  glances,  ad- 

168 


MAX 

miring  or  envious;  close  behind  her  followed  the  brown- 
haired  Englishman  and,  a  little  in  the  rear,  her  second 
cavalier — reserved  of  demeanor,  distinguished  of  car- 
riage, obviously  upholding  the  tradition  of  sang-froid 
that  clings  to  his  countrymen. 

Max's  instinct  was  fully  awake  now;  and  when,  in 
passing  her  table,  the  fair  man  inclined  his  head  to  the 
auburn-haired  lady,  the  matter  merely  fitted  with  his 
expectations. 

What  brief  emotional  past  lay  in  the  mists  of  the  un- 
known, linking  this  woman  to  this  man  ?  Nothing  was  to 
be  read  from  her  face — no  expression  of  pleasure,  none 
of  chagrin;  but  in  her  half-veiled  eyes  a  certain  brilliance 
was  observable  and  her  long,  white  fingers  began  softly 
to  drum  upon  the  table  in  time  to  the  music. 

No  explanation  was  demanded ;  in  a  clear,  disconcert- 
ing flash,  the  situation  was  laid  bare.  Here  was  woman 
desiring  the  love  of  man ;  woman  determined  to  reap  her 
spoil.  It  was  one  issue  in  the  deathless,  relentless 
struggle — the  struggle  wherein  the  little  Jacqueline  clung 
to  her  M.  Cartel,  tenacious  as  the  frail  fern  to  the  un- 
gainly rock — wherein  Madame  Salas  had  fought  sickness 
and  neglect  to  protect  a  fading  life.  It  was  a  truth — 
arresting  as  truth  must  ever  be;  and  stricken  with  a 
tingling  fear,  the  boy  drove  it  from  him,  and  turned  his 
eyes  from  the  fateful,  shadowed  face  and  the  light, 
drumming  fingers. 

A  new  dance  had  begun:  the  grinning  negro  had 
seized  upon  the  Spanish  girl  and  was  whirling  her  down 
the  room  to  the  laughter  of  the  company,  while  her 
countryman  looked  round  the  tables  in  indifferent  search 
for  a  partner. 

His  glance  skimmed  the  white  figure  at  the  lonely 
table,  the  eyes  of  the  woman  were  lifted  for  an  instant, 
revealing  a  flash  of  their  new  light,  and  in  a  moment  the 

169 


MAX 

two  were  dancing  again,  moving  up  and  down  the  room, 
in  and  out  between  the  tables  with  their  original  easy- 
grace;  but  this  time  the  woman's  lips  were  parted  and 
her  eyelids  drooped  in  a  clever  simulation  of  enjoyment. 

Up  and  down  they  glided,  passing  and  repassing  the 
table  where  the  little  dark  lady  supped  with  her  two 
cavaliers,  but  never  once  did  the  woman  raise  her  eyes 
to  the  Englishman's  or  seem  aware  of  the  cold,  close 
glance  that  followed  her  movements;  but  once,  as  the 
music  faded  to  silence,  and  her  white  skirt  swept  past 
his  table  for  the  last  time,  she  murmured  something  softly 
in  Spanish  to  her  partner,  and  allowed  one  level,  effective 
glance  to  fall  on  his  pallid  face. 

That  was  all;  the  waltz  stopped,  she  disengaged  her- 
self gently,  and  walked  back  alone  to  her  table. 

This  waltz  was  followed  by  another  and  yet  another, 
and  again  she  fell  to  her  old  attitude  of  lowered  eyes 
and  drumming  fingers. 

The  Englishman  at  his  table  made  pretence  to  eat  his 
supper,  poured  himself  out  a  fresh  glass  of  champagne, 
drank  if,  and  with  a  suddenly  achieved  decision,  gave 
a  cool  laugh  of  excuse,  rose  and  walked  straight  toward 
the  solitary  figure. 

Max,  momentarily  clairvoyant,  felt  the  violent  heart- 
beat, the  caught  breath,  that  told  the  woman  of  his 
presence — felt  to  a  nicety  the  control  of  her  expression, 
the  rigidity  of  her  body,  as  she  slowly  raised  her  head 
and  met  his  eyes;  then  he  saw  the  man  bow,  making 
some  suggestion,  and  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  with  a 
little  sigh  of  satisfaction  as  the  woman  smiled  and  rose 
and  the  two  began  to  dance. 

Both  tall  above  the  ordinary,  they  were  a  well-suited 
couple,  and  a  certain  pleasure  filled  the  beholder's  mind 
as  they  moved  decorously  up  and  down  the  long  aisle 
formed  by  the  double  row  of  tables — the  man  entirely 

i  70 


MAX 

indifferent  to  his  surroundings,  dancing  in  this  Parisian 
supper-place  precisely  as  he  would  have  danced  in  a 
London  ball-room ;  the  woman  following  his  every  move- 
ment with  a  passivity — a  oneness — that  gave  no  hint  of 
the  definite  purpose  at  work  within  her  brain. 

The  dance  over,  he  led  her  back  to  her  table,  drew  her 
chair  forward  with  elaborate  politeness,  bowed  and,  with 
a  murmured  word,  strolled  back  to  his  own  table. 

So  sure  had  been  her  triumph,  so  abrupt  its  collapse, 
that  Max — smoking  his  cigarette,  sipping  his  coffee — 
turned,  with  a  little  exclamation,  to  Blake. 

"  Have  you  observed,  mon  ami?     Oh,  why  was  that  ?" 

Blake  was  carefully  lighting  a  cigar. 
'Twould  be  hard  to  say,"  he  answered,  meditatively. 
"In  a  matter  of  emotion,  an  Englishman  has  a  way  of 
getting  frightened  of  himself.  This  particular  specimen 
has  come  over  to  Paris  to  play — and  he  doesn't  fancy 
fire  for  a  toy!" 

"And  what  will  happen?  What  will  be  the  end?" 
Max  had  laid  his  cigarette  aside ;  his  fingers  were  inter- 
laced, sure  sign  that  his  emotions  were  running  high; 
and  his  eyes,  when  he  fixed  them  on  Blake's,  held  a 
touch  of  their  rare  sombre  fire. 

"  How  will  it  end,  you  say  ?     Guess,  my  child !" 

Max  shook  his  head. 

:<  Well,  boy,  Eve  will  be  Eve  to  the  end  of  time — and 
Adam  will  be  Adam!" 

"You  mean—?     Oh,  but  look!" 

This  last  was  called  forth  by  the  rising  from  table  of 
the  trio — the  quiet  passing  from  the  room  of  the  fair 
man  in  the  train  of  his  friend  and  the  little  dark 
lady. 

It  seemed  so  final,  so  sharp  an  answer  to  his  question, 
that  Max  could  feel — as  things  personal  and  close — the 
sick  sinking  of  the  heart,  the  accompanying  whiteness  of 

171 


MAX 

cheek  that  must  fall  upon  the  woman  sitting  immovable 
and  alone. 

"I  am  sorry!"  he  cried.     "Oh,  but  I  am  sorry!" 

Blake  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  tip  of  his  cigar. 

"Wait!" 

Even  as  he  said  it,  the  fair  man  reappeared  alone. 
' '  What  did  I  say  ?  Eve  will  be  Eve — Adam  will  be  Adam !' ' 

But  Max  was  not  listening.  Excited,  lifted  beyond 
himself,  he  was  watching  the  Englishman  thread  a  way 
between  the  tables — watching  the  woman  thrill  to  his 
approach  without  lifting  an  eyelid,  moving  a  muscle. 
Rigid  as  a  statue  she  sat,  until  he  was  quite  close;  then, 
curiously,  as  if  nature  demanded  some  symbol  of  the 
fires  within,  her  lips  opened  and  she  began  to  hum  the 
tune  the  orchestra  was  playing. 

It  was  a  strange  form  of  self-expression,  and  as  she 
yielded  to  it  her  cheeks  burned  suddenly  and  her  eyes 
shone  between  their  narrowed  lids. 

She  did  not  speak  when  the  man  seated  himself  at  her 
table,  she  did  not  even  look  up ;  she  went  on  humming  in 
a  strange  ecstatic  reverie,  but  she  smiled — a  very  slow, 
a  very  subtle  smile. 

A  waiter  came,  and  wine  was  brought;  she  drank,  laid 
down  her  glass  and  continued  her  strange  song.  The 
seller  of  flowers  hovered  about  the  table,  smiling  at  the 
Englishman,  and  laid  a  sheaf  of  pink  roses  on  the  white 
cloth;  still  the  humming  continued,  though  mechanically 
the  woman's  long,  white  fingers  gathered  up  the  flowers 
and  held  them  against  her  face.  At  last,  unexpectedly, 
she  raised  her  head,  looked  at  the  man  whose  eyes  were 
now  fixed  in  fascination  upon  her,  looked  away  beyond 
him,  and,  lifting  her  voice  from  its  murmuring  note,  be- 
gan to  sing  aloud. 

It  was  a  scene  curious  beyond  description — the  hot, 
white  room,  the  many  painted  faces,  the  many  jewelled 

172 


MAX 

hands,  the  grotesque  black  forms  of  the  negro  dancers, 
and  in  the  midst  a  woman  hypnotized  by  her  own 
triumph  into  absolute  oblivion. 

She  sat  with  the  roses  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  looking 
into  space,  while  her  voice,  pure  and  singularly  true, 
gathered  strength  until  gradually  the  chattering  of  voices 
and  the  clinking  of  glasses  lessened,  and  the  musicians 
lowered  their  music  to  a  deliberate  accompaniment. 

Nowhere  but  in  Paris  could  such  a  scene  take  place; 
but  here,  although  the  faces  turned  toward  the  singer's 
were  flushed  with  wine,  they  were  touched  with  compre- 
hension. The  gathered  roses — the  high,  sweet  voice — 
the  rapt  face  composed  a  picture,  and  even  when  his  eyes 
are  glazed,  your  Parisian  is  a  connoisseur. 

The  last  note  quivered  into  silence;  a  little  ripple  of 
applause  followed;  and  with  the  same  concentrated, 
hypnotized  gaze,  the  woman's  eyes  turned  from  space 
and  rested  again  upon  the  man. 

It  was  the  glance  ancient  as  tradition — significant  as 
fate.  At  his  distant  table,  Max  rose  and  laid  a  trembling 
hand  upon  Blake's  arm. 

"Ned!     May  we  go?" 

"Oh,  why?     The  night  is  young!" 

"Please!" 

"But  why?" 

"I  desire  it." 

Blake  looked  more  closely,  and  his  expression  changed. 

'  Why,  you're  ill,  boy!"  he  said.     "  You're  as  white  as 
a  sheet!" 

Max  tried  to  laugh.     "  It  is  the  heat — nothing  more." 

" Of  course  it  is !  The  place  is  like  a  hot-house!  You 
want  a  breath  of  air!" 

Again  Max  tried  to  laugh,  but  it  was  a  laugh  oddly 
broken. 

"That  is  it!"  he  said.     "I  want  the  air." 
12  173 


CHAPTER  XX 

MAX  passed  down  the  long,  low  room,  blind  to  the 
[  white  light,  blind  to  the  flowers  and  faces,  deaf  to 
the  voices  and  laughter  and  swaying  sound  of  stringed 
instruments. 

One  glance  he  permitted  himself — one  only — at  the 
table  where  the  man  and  woman  still  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  where  the  sheaf  of  pink  roses  still  shed 
its  incense:  then  he  passed  down  the  steep,  short  stairs, 
halting  at  the  door  of  the  cafS,  hesitating  between  two 
atmospheres — outside,  the  sharp  street  lights,  the  cold, 
wind-swept  pavement — within,  the  hot  air,  the  close 
sense  of  humanity,  powerful  as  a  narcotic. 

"Ned!"  he  said,  looking  back  for  Blake,  "I  need  a 
favor.     Will  you  grant  it?" 

"  A  hundred !"     Blake  was  buttoning  up  his  coat. 

"Then  wish  me  good-night  here.  I  would  go  home 
alone." 

"Alone?  What  nonsense!  You  don't  think  I'd  de- 
sert you  when  you're  seedy?  What  you  want  is  air. 
We'll  take  a  stroll  along  the  boulevards." 

Max  shook  his  head.  He  seemed  rapt  in  his  own 
thoughts;  his  pale  face  was  full  of  purpose. 

"I  am  quite  well — now." 

"Then  all  the  more  reason  for  the  stroll!  Come 
along!" 

But  the  boy  drew  away.  "Another  time!  Not  to- 
night." 

i74 


MAX 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

Blake  looked  more  closely  at  the  nervously  set  lips, 
the  dark  eyebrows  drawn  into  a  frown. 

"  I  say,  boy,  it  hasn't  got  on  your  nerves — this  place? 
I  know  what  a  queer  little  beggar  you  are." 

"No;  it  is  not  that." 

"  Then  what  ?     Another  inspiration  ?" 

"No." 

"Very  well!  I  won't  probe.  I'm  old  enough  to  know 
that  the  human  animal  is  inexplicable.  Good-night — 
and  good  luck!     I'll  see  you  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow,  yes!" 

There  was  relief  in  the  readiness  of  the  response,  re- 
lief in  the  quick  thrusting  forth  of  the  boy's  hand. 

"Good-night!" 

"Good-night!  And  go  to  bed  when  you  get  home. 
You're  very  white." 

"Yes."  ' 

His  voice  seemed  to  recede  further  into  its  distant 
absorbed  note,  his  fingers  were  withdrawn  from  Blake's 
close  pressure  with  a  haste  that  was  unusual,  and  turning 
away,  he  crossed  the  boulevard  as  though  the  vision  of 
some  spectre  had  lent  wings  to  his  feet. 

No  impression  of  romance  touched  him  as  he  hastened 
up  the  narrow  streets  toward  his  home.  He  had  no 
eyes  for  the  secret  shadows,  the  mysterious  corners 
usually  so  fruitful  of  suggestion;  his  whole  perceptions 
were  turned  inward;  his  self-consciousness  was  a  thing 
so  living,  so  acute  that  he  went  forward  as  one  bereft 
of  sight  or  hearing. 

Reaching  the  foot  of  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie, 
he  quickened  his  already  hurried  pace,  and  began  to  run 
up  the  uneven  steps.  The  door  of  his  house  stood  open, 
and  he  plunged  into  the  dark  well  of  the  hall  without 

175 


MAX 

waiting  to  strike  a  match.  By  instinct  his  hand  found 
the  smooth  banister,  and  he  began  his  climb  of  the  stairs. 

Up  he  went,  and  up,  living  in  himself  with  that  per- 
fect absorption  that  comes  in  rare  and  violent  moments — 
moments  of  sorrow,  of  pleasure  or,  it  may  be,  of  surprise, 
when  a  new  thought  suspends  the  action  of  the  brain. 

In  obedience  to  some  unconsidered  instinct  he  softened 
his  steps  on  reaching  the  fifth  floor,  and  crept  across  the 
bare  corridor  to  the  door  of  his  own  rooms. 

He  entered  quietly,  and  still  ignoring  the  need  for  light, 
groped  a  way  to  his  bedroom. 

It  was  the  room  that  had  once  belonged  to  Madame 
Salas;  and,  like  the  kitchen,  it  looked  upon  the  network 
of  roofs  and  chimneys  that  spread  away  at  the  rear  of 
the  house.  Now,  as  he  entered,  closed  the  door,  and 
stood  leaning  against  it,  breathing  quickly,  these  roofs 
and  chimneys,  seen  through  the  uncurtained  window, 
made  a  picturesque  medley  of  lines  and  curves  startlingly 
distinct  against  the  star-powdered  sky. 

The  ethereal  light  of  a  Parisian  spring  night  filled  the 
room,  touching  the  white  walls — the  white  bed — a  bowl  of 
flowers  upon  the  dressing-table  and  its  fairy-like  reflection 
in  the  mirror — to  a  subtly  insidious  fragility  that  verged 
upon  the  unreal;  and  the  boy,  quivering  to  his  tangled 
sensations,  felt  this  unreality  quicken  his  self-distrust, 
touch  and  goad  him  as  a  spur. 

Physical  action  became  imperative;  he  walked  un- 
steadily across  the  room,  pulled  the  serge  curtains  across 
the  window,  abruptly  shutting  out  both  stars  and  roofs, 
and  turning  to  the  dressing-table,  groped  for  matches  and 
struck  a  light. 

Four  candles  stood  in  an  old  silver  candelabra;  he 
touched  them  with  the  match-flame,  they  flickered,  spat, 
rose  to  a  steady  glow.  In  the  new  light  the  room  looked 
warmer,  more  in  touch  with  human  things  and,  moving 

176 


MAX 

with  the  inevitableness  of  a  pendulum,  his  mind  swung 
to  a  definite  desire. 

Impulse  seized  him ;  questions,  doubts,  fears  were  sub- 
merged; trembling  to  a  loosed  emotion,  he  ran  across 
the  room  and  bent  over  his  narrow  bed. 

He  was  alone  now;  alone  in  the  absolutely  primal 
sense  of  the  word,  when  the  individual  ceases  to  act  even 
to  himself.  The  instinct  he  had  denied  was  dominating 
him,  and  he  was  yielding  with  a  sense  of  intoxication. 

With  hands  that  shook  in  excitement,  he  raised  the 
mattress  and,  searching  beneath,  drew  forth  an  object — 
a  flat  packet,  bound  and  sealed — the  packet,  in  fine,  that 
had  lain  so  deep  and  snug  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat 
on  the  night  of  his  entry  into  Paris. 

His  hand — his  whole  body — was  trembling  as  he 
brought  it  to  light  and  walked  back  to  the  dressing- 
table. 

There,  he  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down  before 
the  mirror.  For  a  full  minute  he  sat,  as  if  enchained, 
then  at  length — in  obedience  to  the  force  that  was 
dominating  him — his  fingers  crept  under  the  string,  there 
came  to  the  ear  a  faint,  sharp  crackle,  and  the  seals  broke. 

The  seals  broke,  a  gasp  slipped  from  between  his 
parted  lips,  and  in  his  hands  lay  the  symbol  of  all  the 
imaginings,  all  the  pretty  mockery  wherewith  he  pur- 
ported to  cheat  nature. 

It  lay  in  his  hands — a  simple  thing,  potent  as  simple 
things  ever  are.  No  rare  jewel,  no  state  paper,  merely 
the  long,  thick  strands  of  a  woman's  hair. 

The  paper  fell  away,  and  he  lifted  it  shakingly  to  the 
light.  Stiff-coiled  from  its  long  imprisonment,  it  un- 
wound slowly,  allowing  the  candle-light  to  filch  strange 
hues  from  its  dark  length — glints  of  bronze,  tinges  of 
copper-color  that  gleamed  elusively  from  the  one  end, 
where  it  had  been  roughly  clipped  from  the  head,  to  the 

177 


MAX 

other,  where  it  still  curled  and  twisted  into  little  tendrils 
like  a  living  thing. 

A  woman's  hair!  A  weapon  old  as  time — as  light,  as 
destructible,  as  possessed  of  subtle  powers  as  woman  her- 
self. Strand  upon  strand,  he  drew  it  out,  following  the 
glints  of  light  with  dazed,  questioning  eyes. 

A  woman's  hair!  A  woman's  hair,  woven  to  blind 
men's  eyes! 

Max  leaned  forward,  quivering  to  a  new  impulse,  and, 
raising  the  heavy  coils,  twisted  them  swiftly  about  his 
head.  With  the  action,  the  blood  rushed  into  his  cheeks, 
a  flame  of  excitement  sprang  into  his  eyes  and,  drawing 
the  candles  closer,  he  peered  into  the  mirror. 

There  are  moments  when  a  retrospective  impression 
is  overwhelming — when  a  scent,  a  sight,  a  sound  can 
quicken  things  dead— things  buried  out  of  mind. 

Max  looked  and,  looking,  lost  himself.  The  boy  with 
his  bravery  of  ignorance,  his  frankly  arrogant  egoism 
was  effaced  as  might  be  the  writing  from  a  slate,  and  in 
his  place  was  a  sexless  creature,  rarely  beautiful,  with 
parted,  tremulous  lips  and  wide  eyes  in  which  subtle, 
crowding  thoughts  struggled  for  expression. 

He  looked,  he  lost  himself,  and  losing,  heard  nothing 
of  a  sound,  faint  and  undefined,  that  stole  from  the  re- 
gion of  the  outer  door — nothing  of  a  light  step  in  the 
little  hall  outside  his  room.  Leaning  closer  to  the  mir- 
ror, still  gazing  absorbed,  he  began  to  twist  the  short 
waves  of  his  own  hair  more  closely  into  the  strands  that 
resembled  them  so  nearly  in  texture  and  hue. 

It  was  then,  quietly — with  the  appalling  quietude 
that  can  appertain  to  a  fateful  action — that  the  handle 
of  the  bedroom  door  clicked,  the  door  itself  opened,  and 
the  little  Jacqueline — more  child  than  ever  in  the  throes 
of  a  swift  amazement — stood  revealed,  a  lighted  candle 
in  one  hand,  in  the  other  a  china  mug. 

178 


MAX 

At  sound  of  the  entry,  Max  had  wheeled  round,  his 
hands  still  automatically  holding  up  the  strands  of  hair; 
at  the  vision  that  confronted  him,  a  look  of  rage  flashed 
over  his  face — the  violent,  unrestrained  rage  of  the 
creature  taken  unawares. 

At  the  look  the  little  Jacqueline  quailed,  her  lips 
opened  and  drooped,  her  right  hand  was  lowered,  until 
the  candlestick  hung  at  a  perilous  angle  and  the  wax 
began  to  drip  upon  the  floor. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "and  I  thought  to  find  the  room 
empty!  Pardon!  Pardon!  Oh,  pardon,  mons — madame!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  spoken — the  one  word,  so  brief,  so  significant; 
and  Jacqueline  stood  hesitating,  pleading,  equally 
ready  to  rush  forward  or  to  fly. 

At  last  Max  spoke. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  that?" 

The  tone  in  which  the  question  was  put  was  extremely 
low,  the  gray  eyes  were  steady  almost  to  coldness,  the 
strong,  slight  fingers  began  mechanically  to  fold  up  the 
hair,  strand  upon  strand. 

Jacqueline's  candle  swayed,  until  a  stream  of  the 
melted  wax  guttered  to  the  floor. 

"Because—" 

"Yes?" 

"Because — oh,     because — because — I     have     always 

known!" 

Then  indeed  a  silence  fell.  Jacqueline,  too  petrified  to 
embellish  her  statement,  let  her  voice  trail  off  into  silence ; 
Max,  folding — mechanically  folding — the  strands  of  hair, 
offered  neither  disclaimer  nor  acceptance.  With  the 
force  of  the  inevitable  the  confession  had  struck  home, 
and  deep  within  him  was  the  strong  soul's  respect  for  the 
inevitable. 

"You  have  always  known?"  he  said,  slowly,  when  the 
silence  had  fulfilled  itself.     "  You  have  always  known- 
that  I  am  a  woman?" 

It  sounded  abominably  crude,  abominably  banal — 
this  tardy  question,  and  never  had  Max  felt  less  feminine 
than  in  the  uttering  of  it. 

1 80 


MAX 

The  lips  of  Jacqueline  quivered,  her  blue  eyes  brimmed 
with  tears  of  distress. 

"Oh,  I  could  wish  myself  dead!" 

"And  why?" 

"  Because  I  have  made  myself  an  imbecile!" 

The  humiliation,  the  self-contempt  were  so  candid,  so 
human,  that  something  changed  in  Max's  face  and  the 
icy  rigidity  of  pose  relaxed. 

"Come  here!" 

The  guilty  child  to  the  life,  Jacqueline  came  timidly 
across  the  room,  the  candlestick  still  drooping  unhappily 
from  her  right  hand,  the  mysterious  mug  clutched  in  her 
left. 

Max's  first  action  was  to  take  possession  of  both,  and 
to  set  them  side  by  side  upon  the  dressing-table.  The 
candle  Jacqueline  delivered  up  in  silence,  but  as  the 
mug  was  wrested  from  her,  she  cried  out  in  sudden 
vindictiveness : 

"And  that — look  you — that  is  the  cause  of  all!  It 
was  Lucien's  idea !  I  served  a  cup  of  bouillon  to  him  and 
to  his  friend  at  midnight,  for  they  had  talked  much;  and 
finding  it  good,  nothing  would  serve  but  I  must  place  a 
cup  also  for  Monsieur  Max,  to  await  him  on  his  return. 
Alas!     Alas!" 

Max  pushed  the  cup  away,  as  if  to  remove  a  side 
issue. 

"Answer  the  question  I  put  to  you!  You  know  that 
I  am  a  woman?" 

"Yes;  I  know." 

"Since  when?     Since  the  night  at  the  Bal  Tabarin  ?" 

"Oh,  but  no!" 

"  Since  the  morning  we  met  upon  this  doorstep  ?" 

"No." 

"  Since  the  morning  you  made  the  coffee  for  M.  Blake 
and  me?" 

181 


MAX 

Jacqueline  was  twisting  the  buckle  of  her  belt  in  ner- 
vous perturbation. 

"Answer  me!     It  was  since  that  morning?" 

"No!  Yes!  Oh,  it  was  before  that  morning.  Oh, 
madame — monsieur!"  She  wrung  her  hands  in  a  con- 
fusion of  misery.  "Oh,  do  not  torture  me!  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  it  was — or  when.  I  cannot  explain.  You 
know  how  these  things  come — from  here!"  She  lightly 
touched  the  place  where  she  imagined  her  heart  to  be. 

Max,  sitting  quiet,  made  no  betrayal  of  the  agony  of 
apprehension  at  work  within. 

"And  how  many  others  have  had  this — instinct? 
M.  Cartel?     M.  Blake?" 

So  surprising,  so  grotesque  seemed  the  questions,  that 
self-confidence  rushed  suddenly  in  upon  Jacqueline. 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed — laughed  until 
her  old  inconsequent  self  was  restored  to  power. 

"Lucien!  Monsieur  Edouard!  Oh,  la,  la!  How 
droll!" 

"Then  they  do  not  know?" 

"  Know  ?  Are  they  not  men  ?  And  are  men  not 
children?" 

The  vast  superiority — the  wordly  wisdom  in  the 
babyish  face  was  at  once  so  comical  and  so  reassuring 
that  irresistibly  Max  laughed  too;  and  at  the  laugh,  the 
little  Jacqueline  dropped  to  her  knees  beside  the  dressing- 
table  and  looked  up,  smiling,  radiant. 

"  I  am  forgiven?" 

"I  suppose  so!" 

"Then  grant  me  a  favor — one  favor!  Permit  me  to 
touch  the  beautiful  hair!" 

Without  waiting  for  the  permission,  the  eager  little 
hands  caught  up  the  coiled  strands,  and  in  a  moment 
the  candlelight  was  again  chasing  the  red  tints  and  the 
bronze  through  the  dark  waves. 

182 


MAX 

"  My  faith,  but  it  is  beautiful !  Beautiful !  And  what 
a  pity!" 

"A  pity—?" 

"  That  no  man  may  see  it !' '  For  an  instant  Jacqueline 
buried  her  face  in  the  silky  mass ;  then,  like  a  little  bright 
bird,  looked  up  again.     "  A  man  would  go  mad  for  this!" 

"  For  a  thing  like  that  ?     Absurd !" 

"  Yet  a  thing  like  that  can  demolish  Monsieur  Max, 
and  leave  in  his  place—" 

"What?" 

"  How  shall  I  say  ?  His  sister?"  She  looked  up  anew, 
disarming  in  her  na'ive  candor:  and  a  swift  temptation 
assailed  her  listener — the  temptation  that  at  times 
assails  the  strongest — the  temptation  to  unburden  the 
mind. 

"Jacqueline,"  Max  cried,  impetuously,  "you  speak  a 
great  truth  when  you  say  that!  We  have  all  of  us  the 
two  natures — the  brother  and  the  sister !  Not  one  of  us 
is  quite  woman — not  one  of  us  is  all  man!" 

The  thought  sped  from  him,  winged  and  potent;  and 
Jacqueline,  wise  in  her  child's  wisdom,  offered  no  com- 
ment, put  forward  no  opinion. 

"It  is  a  war,"  Max  cried  again,  "a  relentless,  eternal 
war;  for  one  nature  must  conquer,  and  one  must  fail. 
There  cannot  be  two  rulers  in  the  same  city." 

"  No,"  Jacqueline  murmured,  discreetly,  "  that  is  most 
true." 

"  It  is.     Most  true." 

"Why,  then,  was  madame  adorning  herself  with  her 
beautiful  hair  when  I  had  the  unhappiness  to  enter? 
Has  not  madame  already  waged  her  war — and  con- 
quered?" 

The  eyes  were  full  of  innocent  question,  the  soft  lips 
perfectly  grave. 

Max  paused  to  frame  the  falsehood  that  should  fit  the 

183 


MAX 

occasion;  but,  like  a  flood-tide,  the  frankness,  the 
courage  of  the  boy  nature  rose  up,  and  the  truth  broke 
forth. 

"  I  thought  until  to-night,  Jacqueline,  that  the  battle 
was  won;  but  to-night,  while  I  supped  with  M.  Blake, 
a  little  play  was  played  out  before  me — a  little  human 
play,  where  real  people  played  real  parts,  where  the 
woman  clung  to  her  womanhood,  as  you  cling  to  yours, 
and  the  man  to  his  manhood,  as  does  M.  Cartel;  where 
the  stage  effects  were  smiles  and  glances  and  eyes  and 
hair—" 

Jacqueline  nodded,  but  said  not  a  word. 

"  And  as  I  watched,  the  thought  came  to  me — the  mad 
thought,  that  I  had,  perhaps,  lost  something — that  I 
had,  perhaps,  put  something  from  me.  Oh,  it  was  a 
possession!     A  possession  of  some  evil  spirit!" 

Max  sprang  from  the  chair,  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  shadowed  room,  while  the  little  Jacqueline,  sit- 
ting back  upon  her  heels  in  a  stillness  almost  Oriental, 
watched,  evolving  some  thought  of  her  own. 

"And  so  madame  desired  to  strangle  the  evil  spirit 
with  her  beautiful  hair?" 

The  hurried  steps  ceased. 

"  I  wished  to  see  the  woman  in  me — and  to  dismiss 
her!" 

"And  was  she  easily  dismissed?" 

The  new  question  seemed  curiously  pregnant.  Max 
heard  it,  and  in  swift  response  came  back  again  to  the 
dressing-table,  took  the  hair  from  Jacqueline's  hands 
and  began  again  to  intertwist  it  with  the  boyish  locks. 

Jacqueline  raised  herself  from  her  crouching  position, 
the  more  easily  to  gratify  her  curiosity. 

"It  is  extraordinary — the  change!"  she  murmured. 
"Extraordinary!  Madame,  let  us  complete  it!  Let  us 
remove  that  ugly  coat!"     Excitedly,  and  without  per- 

1S4 


MAX 

mission,  she  began  to  free  Max  of  the  boy's  coat,  while 
Max  yielded  with  a  certain  passive  excitement.  "  And, 
now,  what  can  we  find  to  substitute?  Ah!"  She  gave 
a  cry  of  delight  and  ran  to  the  bed,  over  the  foot  of  which 
was  thrown  a  faded  gold  scarf — a  strip  of  rich  fabric  such 
as  artists  delight  in,  for  which  Max  had  bargained  only 
the  day  before  in  the  rue  Andre  de  Sarte. 

"  Now  the  tie!  And  the  ugly  collar!"  She  ran  back, 
the  scarf  floating  from  her  arm;  and  Max,  still  passive, 
still  held  mute  by  conflicting  sensations,  suffered  the 
light  fingers  to  unloose  the  wide  black  tie,  to  remove  the 
collar,  to  open  a  button  or  two  of  the  shirt. 

"And  now  the  hair!"  With  lightning-like  dexterity, 
Jacqueline  drew  a  handful  of  hairpins  from  her  own  head, 
reduced  her  short  blonde  curls  to  confusion,  and  in  a 
moment  had  brushed  the  thick  waves  of  Max's  clipped 
hair  upward  and  secured  them  into  a  firm  foundation. 

"Now!  Now,  madame!  Close  your  eyes!  I  am  the 
magician!" 

Max's  eyes  closed,  and  the  illusion  of  dead  hours  rose 
again,  more  vivid,  more  poignant  than  before.  With 
the  familiar  sensation  of  deft  fingers  at  work  upon  the 
business  of  hairdressing,  a  thousand  recollections  of 
countless  nights  and  mornings — countless  preparations 
and  wearinesses — countless  anticipations  and  disgusts, 
born  with  the  placing  of  each  hairpin,  the  coiling  of  the 
unfamiliar — familiar— weight  of  hair. 

"  Now,  madame!     Is  it  not  a  picture?" 

With  the  gesture  and  pride  of  an  artist,  Jacqueline  cast 
the  wide  scarf  round  Max's  shoulders  and  stepped  back. 

Max's  eyes  opened,  gazing  straight  into  the  mirror,  and 
once  again  in  that  night  of  contrasts,  emotion  rose 
paramount. 

It  was  most  truly  a  picture ;  not  the  earlier,  puzzling 
sketch — the  anomalous  mingling  of  sex — but  the  com- 

185 


MAX 

plete  semblance  of  the  woman — the  slim  neck  rising 
from  the  golden  folds,  the  proud  head,  seeming  smaller 
under  its  coiled  hair  than  it  had  ever  appeared  in  the  un- 
tidiness of  its  boy's  locks. 

"And  now,  madame,  tell  me!  Is  the  evil  spirit  one 
lightly  to  be  dismissed?" 

All  the  woman  in  the  little  Jacqueline— the  creature 
of  eternal  tradition,  eternal  intrigue — was  glorying  in  her 
handiwork,  in  the  consciousness  of  its  potency. 

But  Max  never  answered;  Max  continued  to  stare  into 
the  glass. 

"You  will  dismiss  it,  madame?" 

Max  still  stared,  a  peculiar  light  of  thought  shining 
and  wavering  in  the  gray  eyes. 

"  Madame,  you  will  dismiss  it  ?" 

Max  turned  slowly. 

"  I  will  do  more,  Jacqueline.     I  will  destroy  it  utterly." 

"Madame!" 

"  I  have  a  great  idea." 

"Madame!" 

"  If  a  spirit — no  matter  how  evil — could  be  material- 
ized, it  would  cease  to  affect  the  imagination.  I  shall 
materialize  mine!" 

"Madame!" 

"Yes;  I  have  arrived  at  a  conclusion.  I  shall  render 
my  evil  spirit  powerless  by  materializing  it.  But  I  must 
first  have  a  promise  from  you;  you  must  promise  me  to 
keep  my  secret." 

"Madame — madame!"  Jacqueline  stammered. 

"  You  will  promise  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  how  am  I  to  trust  you  ?" 

Jacqueline's  blue  eyes  went  round  and  round  the 
room,  in  search  of  some  overwhelming  proof  of  her 
fidelity;  then  swiftly  they  returned  to  Max's. 

186 


THE    COMPLETE    SEMBLANCE    OF    THE    WOMAN 


MAX 

"Not  even  to  Lucien,  madame,  shall  it  be  revealed!" 
And  silently  Max  nodded,  realizing  the  greatness  of 
the  pledge. 

•  •••••• 

Many  hours  later,  when  all  the  lights  were  out  in  the 
rue  Muller  and  all  the  doors  were  closed,  the  slight 
figure  of  the  boy  Max  might  have  been  seen  by  any 
belated  wanderer  slipping  down  the  Escalier  de  Sainte- 
Marie  to  post  a  letter — a  letter  that  had  cost  much 
thought,  and  upon  which  had  been  dropped  many  blots 
of  ink;  and  had  the  belated  wanderer  been  possessed  of 
occult  powers  and  wished  to  probe  inside  the  envelope, 
the  words  he  would  have  read  were  these — scrawled 
with  bold  impetuosity: 

Man  Ami, — My  idea — the  true  idea — has  come  to  me.  It  was 
born  in  the  first  hour  of  this  new  day,  and  with  it  has  come  the 
knowledge  that,  either  you  were  right  and  some  artists  need 
solitude,  or  I  am  one  of  the  fools  I  talked  of  yesterday! 

All  this  means  that  I  am  ill  of  the  fever  of  work,  and  that  for 
many,  many  days — many,  many  weeks — I  shall  be  in  my  studio 
— locked  away  even  from  you. 

Think  no  unkind  thing  of  me!  All  my  friendship  is  yours — 
and  all  my  thought.  Be  not  jealous  of  my  work !  Understand! 
Oh,  Ned,  understand!  And  know  me,  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
your   boy  Max. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XXII 

OF  all  the  ills  that  circumstance  forces  upon  man, 
separation  from  a  beloved  object  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  salutary.  Separation  is  the  crucible  wherein  love 
undergoes  the  test  absolute;  in  the  fire  of  loss,  grief 
softens  to  indifference  or  hardens  to  enduring  need. 

The  pale  blue  sky  of  May  smiled  upon  Montmartre. 
The  shrubs  in  the  plantation  shimmered  forth  in  green 
garments,  the  news- vender  by  the  gate,  the  little  old 
Basque  peasant  woman  telling  her  beads  in  the  shade  of 
a  holly-tree,  even  the  children  screaming  at  play  on  the 
gravelled  pathway,  were  touched  with  the  charm  of  the 
hour.  Or  so  it  seemed  to  Max — Max,  debonair  of  car- 
riage— Max,  hastening  to  a  rendezvous  with  fast-beating 
heart  and  nerves  that  throbbed  alternately  to  a  wild 
joy  cf  anticipation  and  a  ridiculous,  self-conscious 
dread. 

How  he  had  counted  upon  the  moment!  How  he  had 
loved  and  feared  it  in  ardent,  varying  imagination !  And 
now,  that  it  had  at  last  arrived,  how  hopelessly  his  pre- 
arranged actions  eluded  him,  how  humanly  his  rehearsed 
sentences  failed  to  marshal  themselves  for  speech!  As 
he  climbed  up  the  plantation,  dazzled  by  the  sun,  in- 
toxicated by  the  budding  summer,  he  felt  the  merest  un- 
sophisticated youth — the  merest  novice,  dumb  and  im- 
potent under  his  own  emotions. 

Then,  suddenly,  all  self-distrust — even  all  self-con- 
sciousness — was  reft  from  him  and  he  stood  quite  still, 

191 


MAX 

the  blood  burning  his  face,  a  strange  sensation  contract- 
ing his  throat. 

"At  last!     After  a  hundred  thousand  years!" 

The  first  impression  that  fled  across  his  mind  was  the 
intense  familiarity  of  Blake's  voice — the  delightful  fa- 
miliarity of  Blake's  phrasing;  the  second,  the  brimming 
joy  of  regained  companionship. 

"  Mon  ami  !    Cher  ami  /' ' 

His  hands  went  out  and  were  caught  in  Blake's;  and 
all  existence  became  a  mirror  to  the  blue,  smiling  sky. 

No  further  word  was  said ;  Blake  took  possession  of  his 
arm  in  the  old,  accustomed  fashion,  and  silently — in  that 
silence  which  makes  speech  seem  poor — they  turned  and 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  gravelled  path. 

There  was  nothing  beautiful  in  the  plantation  of  the 
Sacre-Cceur ;  the  shrubs,  for  all  their  valor  of  green,  were 
slight  things  if  one  thought  of  forest  trees,  the  grass  was 
a  mere  pretence  of  grass.  But  the  human  mind  is  a  great 
magician,  weaving  glories  from  within,  and  neither  Blake 
nor  Max  had  will  for  anything  but  the  moment  set  pre- 
cisely as  it  was. 

For  the  gift  of  the  universe,  Blake  could  not  have  told 
why  the  mere  holding  of  the  boy's  arm,  the  mere  regulat- 
ing of  his  pace  to  his,  filled  him  with  such  satisfaction; 
nor,  for  the  same  magnificent  bribe,  could  Max  have  ex- 
plained the  glow — the  all-sufficing  sense  of  fulfilment, 
born  of  the  physical  contact. 

For  long  they  paced  up  and  down,  wrapped  in  their 
cloak  of  content;  then  some  look,  some  movement 
brought  the  world  back,  and  Blake  paused. 

"What  a  selfish  brute  I  am!  What  about  the  work? 
Tell  me,  is  it  done?" 

Max  looked  up,  the  sun  discovering  the  little  flecks  of 
gold  in  his  gray  eyes ;  Max  laughed  from  sheer  happiness. 

"  Mon  ami!    But  absolutely  I  had  forgotten!    Figure 

J92 


MAX 

it  to  yourself!  I  came  out  of  the  house,  hot  and  cold  for 
my  poor  picture,  and  immediately  we  met — "  He 
laughed  again.  "  Mon  ami!  What  a  compliment  to 
you!" 

"  It  is  done  then — the  great  work?" 

"Yes;    it  is  finished." 

"Then  I  must  see  it  this  minute — this  minute — this 
very  minute!" 

The  definiteness  of  the  tone  was  like  the  clasp  of  the 
arm,  and  Max  glowed  anew.  By  a  swift,  emotional 
effort,  he  conjured  up  the  longings  that  had  preyed  upon 
him  in  his  self-imposed  solitude — conjured  them  for  the 
sheer  joy  of  feeling  them  evaporate  before  reality. 

"  It  awaits  you,  mon  ami!"  He  made  a  sweeping  gest- 
ure, as  though  he  laid  the  world  at  his  friend's  feet.  And 
Blake,  noting  this,  noted  also  with  an  odd  little  sense  of 
gratification,  that  Max's  English  was  a  trifle  more  halting 
— a  trifle  more  stilted  for  the  break  in  their  companion- 
ship. 

Still  arm  in  arm,  they  passed  down  the  sloping  path- 
way to  the  gate,  where  the  children  still  played  shrilly 
and  the  old  Basque  peasant  still  drowsed  over  her  rosary 
beads.  As  they  passed  her,  Blake  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  slipped  a  silver  coin  into  her  fingers. 

"They're  so  like  my  own  people — these  Basque 
peasants!"  he  said,  by  way  of  excuse.  "They  always 
give  me  a  warm  feeling  about  the  heart." 

The  old  woman  looked  up  surprised,  and  both  were 
attracted  by  the  picture  she  made  against  the  dark  holly- 
trees — the  brown  withered  face,  the  astonishingly  bright 
eyes  like  the  eyes  of  a  bird,  the  spare,  bent  figure  with  its 
scrupulous  cleanliness  of  dress. 

"The  blessing  of  the  good  God  rest  upon  you,  mon- 
sieur!" she  said,  solemnly.  "And  may  He  provide  you 
with  your  heart's  desire!" 

i93 


MAX 

"  And  for  me,  bonne  mere?"  Max  broke  in.  "  What  for 
me?" 

The  small  bright  eyes  scanned  the  young  face  thought- 
fully. "The  good  God,  monsieur,  will  take  you  where 
He  means  that  you  should  go !"  Her  thin  lips  closed,  and 
she  fell  again  to  the  telling  of  her  beads,  her  inner  vision 
doubtless  weaving  the  scenes  of  her  youth — the  grave 
brown  hills  and  sounding  sea  of  her  native  country. 

"For  the  moment  it  would  seem  that  the  good  God 
points  a  way  to  the  studio!"  said  Max,  as  they  turned 
away.  " Mon  ami,  I  burn  and  tremble  at  once!  Sup- 
pose it  is  of  no  use — my  picture?"  He  stopped  sud- 
denly by  the  gate,  to  gaze  with  unpremeditated  con- 
sternation at  Blake;  and  Blake,  touched  by  the  happy 
familiarity  of  the  action,  laughed  aloud. 

"The  same  Max!"  he  cried.  "The  same,  same  Max! 
It's  like  turning  back  to  the  first  page  of  my  little  book. 
Come  along!  I  have  spirit  for  anything  to-day — even  to 
tell  you  that  you've  made  a  failure.  Come  along,  boy! 
It's  a  great  world,  when  all's  said  and  done!  Come 
along!     I'll  race  you  up  the  steps!" 

Laughing  like  a  couple  of  children,  they  ran  up  the 
Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie,  smiled  upon  indulgently  by  the 
careless  passers-by,  and  entering  the  house,  the  race  was 
continued  up  the  polished  stairs. 

At  the  door  of  the  appartement  Max  came  level  with 
Blake,  his  face  glowing  with  excitement,  his  laughter 
broken  by  quick  breaths. 

"Oh,  Ned,  no!  No!  You  must  not  enter!  I  am  to 
go  first.  I  have  arranged  it  all.  Ned,  please!"  He 
pulled  Blake  back  and,  opening  the  door,  passed  into  the 
little  hall  and  on  into  the  bare,  bright  studio. 

To  Blake,  following  closely,  the  scene  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  another  scene — to  the  occasion  upon 
which   Max  had  blocked   in,   and  then  destroyed,   his 

194 


MAX 

cabaret  picture — save  that  now  the  light  was  no  longer 
the  silvery  light  of  spring,  but  the  pale  gold  radiance  of  a 
youthful  summer. 

The  impression  came,  but  the  impression  was  sum- 
marily erased,  for  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  Max  flew 
to  him,  his  exuberance  suddenly  dead,  the  trepidation  of 
the  artist  enveloping  him  again,  chasing  the  blood  from 
his  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Ned!  Dear  Ned!  If  it  is  bad?"  He  caught 
and  clung  to  Blake's  arm,  restraining  him  forcibly.  "  Do 
not  look!-    Wait  one  moment !     Just  one  little  moment!" 

Very  gently  Blake  disengaged  the  clinging  hands. 
"What  a  child  he  is,  after  all!  He  shuts  himself  away 
and  works  like  a  galley-slave  and  then,  when  the  moment 
of  justification  comes — !  Nonsense,  boy!  I'm  not  a 
critic.     Let  me  see!" 

As  in  a  dream,  Max  saw  him  walk  round  the  easel 
and  pause  full  in  front  of  it;  in  an  agony  of  appre- 
hension, a  quaking  eagerness,  he  lived  through  the  mo- 
ment of  silence;  then  at  Blake's  first  words  the  blood 
rushed  singing  to  his  ears. 

"  It's  extraordinary !     But  who  is  it  ?" 

"Extraordinary?  Extraordinary?"  In  a  wild  onset 
of  emotion,  Max  caught  but  the  one  word.  "  Does  that 
mean  good — -or  does  it  mean  bad  ?  Oh,  won  cher,  all 
that  I  have  put  into  that  picture!  Speak!  Speak! 
Be  cruel!     It  is  all  wrong?     It  is  all  bad?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  said  Blake,  harshly.  "You  know 
it's  good.  But  who  is  it?  That's  what  I'm  asking  you. 
Who  is  it?" 

Heedless,  unstrung — half  laughing,  half  crying — Max 
ran  across  the  room.  "Oh,  mon  ami,  how  you  terrified 
me — I  thought  you  had  condemned  it!" 

But  Blake's  eyes  were  for  the  picture;  the  portrait 
of  a  woman  seated  at  a  mirror — a  portrait  in  which  the 

195 


MAX 

delicate  reflected  face  looked  out  from  its  shadowing 
hair  with  a  curious  questioning  intentness,  a  fascinating 
challenge  at  once  elusive  and  vital. 

"Who  is  it?" 

He  spoke  low  and  with  a  deliberate  purpose;  and  at 
his  tone  recklessness  seized  upon  Max. 

"  A  woman,  mon  ami  !  Just  a  woman !"  He  stiffened 
his  shoulders,  threw  up  his  head,  like  a  child  who  would 
dare  the  universe. 

"  Yes,  but  what  woman  ?"  With  amazing  suddenness 
Blake  swung  round  and  fixed  a  searching  glance  upon 
him.  "  She's  the  living  image  of  you — but  you  with 
such  a  difference — " 

He  stopped  as  swiftly  as  he  had  begun,  and  in  the 
silence  Max  quailed  under  his  glance.  Out  of  the  un- 
known, fear  assailed  him;  it  seemed  that  under  this 
mastering  scrutiny  his  mask  must  drop  from  him,  his 
very  garments  be  rent.  In  sudden  panic  his  thought 
skimmed  possibilities  like  a  circling  bird  and  lighted  upon 
the  first-found  point  of  safety. 

"She  is  my  sister,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook  a 
little.     "She  is  my  sister — Maxine." 

Blake's  eyes  still  held  his. 

"But  you  never  said  you  had  a  sister." 

Max  seized  upon  his  bravado,  flinging  it  round  him 
as  a  garment. 

"Mon  ami,"  he  cried,  "we  are  not  all  as  confiding  as 
you!  Besides,  it  is  not  given  to  us  all  to  possess  five 
aunts,  seven  uncles,  and  twenty-four  first  cousins!  If 
I  have  but  one  sister,  may  I  not  guard  her  as  a  secret?" 

He  spoke  fast;  his  eyes  flashed  with  the  old  light, 
half  pleading,  half  impertinent,  his  chin  was  lifted  with 
the  old  defiant  tilt.  The  effect  was  gained.  Blake's 
severity  fell  from  him,  and  with  a  quick  gesture  of 
affection  he  caught  him  by  the  shoulder. 

196 


MAX 

"I'm  well  reproved!"  he  said.  "Well  reproved! 
'Twas  quite  the  right  way  of  telling  me  to  mind  my  own 
affairs.  And  if  she  were  my  sister — "  He  turned  again 
to  the  picture,  but  as  his  eyes  met  the  mirrored  eyes 
with  their  profound,  inscrutable  look,  his  words  broke 
off  unaccountably. 

"Yes,  mon  ami?  If  she  were  your  sister — ?"  Max, 
with  eager,  stealthy  glance,  was  following  his  expressions. 

But  he  did  not  answer ;  he  stood  lost  in  contemplation, 
speculating,  he  knew  not  why,  upon  the  question  in  the 
mirrored  face. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE  studio  was  in  darkness;  the  old  leathern  arm- 
chair was  drawn  close  to  the  window,  and  from  its 
capacious  depths  Blake  looked  down  upon  the  lights  of 
Paris,  while  Max,  leaning  over  the  balcony,  looked  up- 
ward at  the  pale  May  stars  clustering  like  jewelled  flowers 
in  the  garden  of  the  sky. 

They  had  finished  dinner — a  dinner  cooked  by  Blake 
in  the  little  kitchen  beyond  the  hall,  and  empty  coffee- 
cups  testified  to  a  meal  enjoyed  to  its  legitimate  end. 
The  sense  of  solitude — of  an  intimate  hour — lay  upon 
the  scene  as  intangibly  and  as  definitely  as  did  the  dark- 
ness; but  Max,  watching  the  pageant  of  the  stars,  rest- 
ing his  light  body  against  the  iron  railing,  was  filled  with 
a  mental  restlessness,  the  nervous  reaction  of  the  day's 
triumph.  More  than  once  he  glanced  at  Blake,  a  little 
gleam  of  uncertainty  flashing  in  his  eyes,  and  more  than 
once  his  glance  returned  to  the  sky,  as  if  seeking  counsel 
of  its  immensity. 

Upon  what  point  was  Blake  speculating  ?  What  were 
the  thoughts  at  work  behind  his  silence  ?  The  questions 
tormented  him  like  the  flicking  of  a  whip,  and  he  marked 
with  an  untoward  jealousy  the  profundity  of  Blake's 
calm — marked  it  until,  goaded  by  a  sudden  loneliness, 
he  cried  his  fear  aloud. 

"  Ned!     You  missed  me  in  these  weeks?  ' 

Blake  started,  giving  evidence  of  a  broken  dream. 
"Missed  you,  boy?"  he  said,  quietly.     "I  didn't  know 

198 


MAX 

how  much  I  missed  you  until  I  saw  you  again  to- 
day." 

"And  you  have  made  no  new  friend?" 

"Not  a  solitary  one — man,  woman,  or  child!" 

The  reply  would  have  satisfied  the  most  suspicious; 
and  Max  gave  a  quick,  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"Ah!     I  thank  God!" 

In  the  darkness,  Blake  smiled,  looking  indulgently  at 
the  youthful  figure  silhouetted  against  the  sky.  "Why 
are  you  so  absurd,  boy?"  he  asked,  gently.  "Surely,  I 
have  proved  myself!" 

"Forgive  me!  I  was  jealous!"  With  one  of  his  en- 
gaging impulses,  the  boy  straightened  himself  and  came 
across  the  balcony.  "  I  am  a  strange  creature,  Ned !  I 
want  you  altogether  for  myself — I  want  to  know  you 
satisfied  to  be  all  mine !" 

Blake  looked  up.  "  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  irrele- 
vantly and  a  little  dreamily,  "do  you  know  that  is  just 
the  speech  I  could  imagine  issuing  from  the  lips  of  your 
picture!  Tell  me  something  of  this  mysterious  sister  of 
yours;   I've  been  patient  until  now." 

Max  drew  back  into  the  darkness. 

"Of  my  sister?     There  is  nothing  to  tell!" 

"Nonsense!  There's  always  something  to  tell.  It's 
the  sense  of  a  story  behind  things  that  keeps  half  of  us 
alive.  Come!  I've  spun  you  many  a  yarn."  With  the 
quiet  air  of  the  man  who  means  to  have  his  way,  he  took 
out  and  lighted  a  cigar. 

"Come,  boy!     I'm  listening!" 

Max  had  turned  back  to  the  railing,  and  once  more  he 
leaned  out  into  the  night ;  but  now  his  eyes  were  for  the 
meshed  lights  of  the  city  and  no  longer  for  the  stars,  his 
restlessness  had  heightened  to  excitement,  his  heart 
seemed  to  beat  in  his  throat.  The  temptation  to  make 
confession,    to    make    confession    here,    isolated   in    the 

199 


MAX 

midst  of  the  world,  with  the  friend  of  his  soul  for  con- 
fessor, caught  him  with  the  urgency  of  an  embracing  gale. 
To  lay  himself  bare,  and  yet  retain  his  garments!  His 
head  swam,  as  he  yielded  to  the  suggestion. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell!"  he  said  again. 

"That's  admitted!  All  the  best  stories  begin  that 
way." 

Max  laughed  and  took  a  cigarette  from  his  pocket. 
His  nerves  were  tingling,  his  blood  racing  to  the  thought 
of  the  precipice  upon  which  he  stood.  One  false  step 
and  the  fabric  of  his  existence  was  imperilled !  The  ad- 
venturer awoke  in  him  alive  and  alert. 

"She  intrigues  you,  then — Maxine?" 

"  Marvellously — as  the  Sphinx  intrigues  me !  To  begin 
with,  why  the  name ?     You  Max!     She  Maxine!" 

For  an  instant  Max  scanned  the  dark  plantation  with 
knitted  brows;  then  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  with  a 
peculiar  smile. 

"We  are  twins,  mon  cher!"  he  said,  taking  secret  joy 
in  the  elaboration  of  his  lie.  "  My  mother  was  a  French- 
woman, by  name  Maxine,  and  when  she  died  at  our  birth, 
my  father  in  his  grief  bestowed  the  name  upon  us  both 
— the  boy  and  the  girl — Max  and  Maxine!"  Very  care- 
fully he  lighted  his  cigarette.  His  whole  nature  was 
quivering  to  the  dangers  of  this  masked  confession — this 
dancing  upon  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  "  My  father  was 
a  man  of  ideas!"  He  carefully  threw  the  match  down 
into  the  rue  Muller. 

"Your  father,  I  take  it,  was  a  personage  of  impor- 
tance?"    Blake  was  momentarily  sarcastic. 

"A  personage,  yes,"  the  boy  admitted,  "but  that  is 
not  the  point.  The  point  is  that  he  was  a  man  of  ideas, 
who  understood  the  body  and  the  soul.  A  man  who 
trained  a  child  in  every  outdoor  sport  until  it  was  one 
with  nature,  and  then  taught  it  to  entrap  nature  and 

200 


MAX 

bend  her  to  the  uses  of  art.  He  was  very  great — my 
father!" 

"He  is  dead?" 

"Yes;  he  is  dead.  He  died  the  year  before  Maxine 
married." 

"Ah,  she  married?"  Absurd  as  it  might  seem,  there 
was  a  fleeting  shadow  of  disappointment  discernible  in 
Blake's  voice. 

"  Yes,  she  married.  After  my  father's  death  she  went 
to  my  aunt  in  Petersburg,  and  there  she  forgot  both 
nature  and  art — and  me." 

"  And  who  was  the  man  she  married  ?" 

Max  shrugged  his  shoulders  to  the  ears.  "  Does  it 
serve  any  purpose  to  relate?  He  was  very  charming, 
very  accomplished;  how  was  my  sister,  at  eighteen-  to 
know  that  he  was  also  very  callous,  very  profligate,  very 
cruel?  These  things  happen  every  day  in  every 
country!" 

"Did  she  love  him?"  Blake  was  leaning  forward  in 
his  chair;   he  had  forgotten  to  keep  his  cigar  alight. 

"Love  him?"  With  a  vehemence  electric  as  it  was 
unheralded,  Max's  voice  altered;  with  the  passionate 
changefulness  of  the  Russian,  indifference  was  swept 
aside,  emotion  gushed  forth.  "Love  him?  Yes,  she 
loved  him — she,  who  was  as  proud  as  God!  She  loved 
him  so  that  all  her  pride  left  her — all  the  high  courage  of 
my  father  left  her — " 

"And  he — the  man,  the  husband?" 

"The  man?"  Max  laughed  a  short,  bitter  laugh  un- 
suggestive  of  himself.  "  The  man  did  what  every  man 
does,  my  friend,  when  a  woman  lies  down  beneath  his 
feet — he  spurned  her  away." 

"  But,  my  God,  a  creature  like  that!" 

Again  Max  laughed.  "  Yes !  That  is  what  you  all  say 
of  the  woman  who  is  not  beneath  your  own  heel !     You 

201 


MAX 

wonder  why  I  disapprove  of  love.  That  is  the  reason  of 
my  disapproval — the  story  of  my  sister  Maxine !  Maxine 
who  was  as  fine  and  free  as  a  young  animal,  until  love 
snared  her  and  its  instrument  crushed  her." 

"But  the  man — the  husband?"  said  Blake  again. 

"  The  man  ?  The  man  followed  the  common  way, 
dragging  her  with  him — step  by  step,  step  by  step — down 
the  sickening  road  of  disillusionment — down  that  steep, 
steep  road  that  is  bitter  as  the  Way  of  the  Cross!" 

"Boy!" 

"I  shock  you?  You  have  not  travelled  that  road! 
You  have  not  seen  the  morass  at  the  bottom !  You  have 
not  seen  the  creature  you  loved  stripped  of  every  gar- 
ment that  you  wove — as  has  my  sister  Maxine !  You  do 
well  to  be  shocked.  You  have  not  been  left  with  a  scar 
upon  your  heart;  you  have  not  viewed  the  last  black 
picture  of  all — the  picture  of  your  beloved  as  a  dead 
thing — dead  over  some  affair  of  passion  so  sordid  that 
even  horror  turns  to  disgust.  You  do  well  to  be 
shocked!" 

"  Dead?"  repeated  Blake,  caught  by  the  sound  of  the 
word.     "He  died,  then?" 

"  He  killed  himself."  Max  laughed  harshly.  "  Killed 
himself  when  all  the  wrong  was  done!" 

"  And  your  sister  ?  Your  sister  ?  Where  did  she  go — • 
what  did  she  do?" 

"  What  does  a  woman  do  when  she  is  thrown  up  like 
wreckage  after  the  storm?" 

"  She  does  as  her  temperament  directs.  I  think  your 
sister  would  go  back  to  nature — to  the  great  and  simple 
things." 

With  a  tense  swiftness  the  boy  turned  from  his  fixed 
contemplation  of  the  sky,  his  glance  flashing  upon 
Blake. 

"  One  must  be  naked  and  whole  to  go  back  to  nature! 

202 


MAX 

One    fears    nature  when    one    is    wreckage    from    the 
storm!" 

"Then  she  turned  to  art?" 

"No,  my  friend!  No!  Art,  like  nature,  exacts — and 
she  had  already  given !  She  was  too  frightened — too  hurt 
to  meddle  with  great  things.  She  dried  her  tears  before 
they  had  time  to  fall;  she  hardened  her  heart,  and  went 
back  to  the  world  that  gives  nothing  and  exacts  nothing." 

"  Poor  child !"  said  Blake.     "  Poor  child !' ' 

"  She  went  back  to  the  world — and  the  world  poured 
oil  on  her  wounds,  and  soothed  her  fears  and  taught  her 
its  smiling,  shallow  ways." 

"Poor  child!" 

The  reiterated  word  had  a  curious  effect  upon  the  boy; 
his  fierceness  dropped  from  him;  he  turned  again  to  the 
railing  and,  looking  upward,  seemed  to  drench  himself 
in  the  coolness  of  the  starlight. 

"  For  years  she  lived  her  shallow  life.  She  took  lightly 
the  light  gifts  the  world  offered ;  among  those  gifts  was 
love—" 

"Stop!"  cried  Blake,  involuntarily.  "You  are  tar- 
nishing the  picture!" 

"  I  am  only  painting  in  crude  colors!  Much  love  was 
offered  lightly  to  Maxine,  and  she  took  it — lightly ;  then 
one  day  her  friend  the  world  brought  for  her  considera- 
tion a  suitor  more  powerful,  more  distinguished,  even 
less  exigent  than  the  rest — " 

"Stop!  Stop!"  cried  Blake,  again.  "I  can't  see  her 
as  this  hard  woman.     She  frightens  me!" 

"She  has  sometimes  frightened  me,"  said  Max,  enig- 
matically, "but  that  is  outside  the  picture.  She  took, 
as  I  tell  you,  with  both  hands,  smiling  very  wisely  to 
herself,  holding  her  head  very  high.  But  when  the 
head  is  held  too  high,  the  feet  sometimes  fall  into  a  trap. 
It  came  suddenly — the  trapping  of  my  sister  Maxine." 

203 


MAX 

"Yes!     Yes!     Tell  me!" 

"I  am  telling  you,  my  friend!  The  date  of  Maxine's 
marriage  was  fixed,  and  she  moved  through  her  world 
content.  One  night  a  great  court  function  was  held; 
she  was  present,  her  fiance  was  present,  the  atmosphere 
was  all  congratulation — like  honey  and  wine.  When  it 
was  over,  the  fiance  begged  the  privilege  of  escorting  her 
to  her  home,  and  they  drove  together  through  the  cold 
Russian  night.  They  spoke  little;  Maxine's  thoughts 
skimmed  lightly  over  the  future,  her  hands  lay  lightly 
in  her  fiance's.  All  was  unemotional — all  was  smooth 
and  undisturbed — until  they  reached  the  street  where 
her  house  stood;  then,  with  the  swiftness  that  belongs 
to  mad  moments,  the  being  beside  her  showed  himself. 
Quick  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  dignified,  distinguished, 
unexacting  lover  was  effaced,  and  in  his  place  was  a 
man — an  animal — a  passionate  egoist!  He  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  his  arms  were  like  iron  bands;  his  lips 
pressed  hers,  and  they  were  like  a  flame.  In  a  flash,  the 
fabric  of  her  illusions  was  scattered.  She  saw  the  truth. 
The  world  had  cheated  her,  this  second  marriage  was  to 
be  as  the  first.  Terror  seized  my  sister  Maxine — terror 
of  life,  terror  of  herself.  Her  false  calm  broke  up,  as  the 
ice  breaks  under  the  hand  of  spring — wells  of  fear  gushed 
in  her  heart.  She  dismissed  her  lover  at  the  gateway 
of  her  house ;  he  guessed  nothing — he  knew  nothing  but 
that  her  hands  were  shaking  and  that  her  face  was 
white,  but  when  he  was  gone  she  rushed  to  her  own 
room,  cast  off  all  her  jewels,  wrapped  herself  in  a  fur 
cloak  and  commanded  her  sledge  and  her  swiftest  horses." 

"Boy!"  cried  Blake.     "What  a  situation!" 

"She  drove,  drove  for  hours,  feeling  nothing  of  the 
biting  cold,  seeing  nothing  of  the  imprisoning  white 
world  about  her,  goaded  by  one  idea — the  terror  of  life — 
the  terror  of  giving  herself  again — " 

204 


MAX 

"She  fled,"  cried  Blake,  with  sudden  intuition.  "She 
never  returned  to  Petersburg!"  He  had  risen  from  his 
chair;    he  was  supremely,  profoundly  interested. 

"She  never  returned  to  her  own  house.  Three  days 
after  that  wild  drive  she  left  Russia — left  Russia  and 
came — " 

"To  you!"  cried  Blake.  "What  a  superb  situation! 
She  came  back  to  you — the  companion  of  her  youth — 
to  you,  adventuring  here  in  your  own  odd  way!  Oh, 
boy,  it's  great!" 

"It  is  strange — yes!"  said  Max,  suddenly  curbing 
himself. 

"Strange?  It's  stupendous!"  Blake  caught  him  by 
the  shoulder,  wheeling  him  round,  looking  straight  into 
his  face.  "Boy!  You  know  what  I'm  going  to  ask? 
You  know  what  I'm  wanting  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul?" 

The  pressure  of  his  hand  was  hard;  he  was  the  Blake 
of  rare  moments — the  Blake  roused  from  nonchalant 
good-nature  into  urgency  of  purpose.  Max  felt  a  doubt, 
a  thin,  wavering  fear  flutter  across  his  mind. 

" Mon  cher,"  he  stammered,  "I  do  not  know.  How 
could  I  know?" 

"  It's  this,  then!  With  all  my  heart  and  soul  I  want 
to  know  this  sister  of  yours." 

14 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  came  sharply,  as  the  crash  of  a  breaking  vessel 
might  come  to  the  ear — this  ring  of  reality  in  Blake's 
voice!  Abruptly,  unpleasantly,  Max  came  back  to  the 
world  and  the  consequences  of  his  act. 

Impressions  and  instincts  spring  to  the  artist  mind; 
in  a  moment  he  was  armored  for  self  -  preservation — 
so  straitly  armored  that  every  sentiment,  even  the 
vague-stirring  jealousy  of  himself  that  had  been  given 
sudden  birth,  was  overridden  and  cast  into  the  dark. 

With  the  old  hauteur,  the  old  touch  of  imperiousness, 
he  returned  Blake's  glance. 

" Mon  ami"  he  said,  gravely,  "what  you  desire  is 
impossible." 

Only  a  moment  had  intervened  between  Blake's  decla- 
ration and  his  reply,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  universe 
had  reeled  and  steadied  again  in  that  brief  interval. 

"And  why  impossible?" 

Again  it  was  the  atmosphere  of  their  first  meeting — 
the  boy  hedged  behind  his  pride,  the  man  calmly  break- 
ing a  way  through  that  hedge. 

Max  shrugged.  "The  word  is  final.    It  explains  itself." 

With  a  conciliatory,  affectionate  movement,  Blake's 
hand  slipped  from  his  shoulder  to  his  arm.  "  Don't  be 
absurd,  boy,"  he  said,  gently.  "Nothing  on  God's 
earth  is  impossible.  '  Impossibility'  is  a  word  coined  by 
weak  people  behind  which  to  shelter.  Why  may  I  not 
know  your  sister?" 

206 


MAX 

Max  drew  away  his  arm,  not  ostentatiously,  but  with 
definite  purpose. 

"  Can  you  not  understand  without  explanation — you, 
who  comprehend  so  well?" 

"Frankly,  I  cannot." 

"My  sister  is  in  Paris  secretly.  She  would  think  it 
very  ill  of  me  to  discuss  her  affairs — " 

Blake  looked  quickly  into  the  cold  face.  "  I  wonder 
if  she  would,  boy?"  he  said.  " I  think  I'll  go  and  see!" 
With  perfect  seriousness  he  stepped  back  into  the 
studio,  struck  a  match,  lighted  a  candle  and  walked  de- 
liberately to  the  easel,  while  Max,  upon  the  balcony, 
held  his  breath  in  astonishment. 

For  long  he  stood  before  the  portrait ;  then  at  last  he 
spoke,  and  his  words  were  as  unexpected  as  his  action 
had  been. 

" She  loves  you,  boy?"  he  asked. 

" Loves  me?  Oh,  of  course  1"  Max  was  startled  into 
the  reply. 

"Then  'twill  be  all  right!"  With  a  touch  of  finality 
he  blew  out  his  candle  and  came  back  to  the  balcony. 
"It  will  be  all  right,  or  I'm  no  judge  of  human  nature! 
That  woman  could  be  as  proud  as  Lucifer  where  she  dis- 
liked or  despised,  but  she'd  be  all  toleration,  all  generosity 
where  her  love  was  touched.  Tell  her  I'm  your  friend 
and,  believe  me,  she'll  ask  no  other  passport  to  her  favor." 

Max,  standing  in  the  darkness — eager  of  glance,  quick 
of  thought,  acutely  attentive  to  every  tone  of  Blake's 
voice — suddenly  became  cognizant  of  his  demon  of 
jealousy,  felt  its  subtle  stirring  in  his  heart,  its  swift 
spring  from  heart  to  throat.  A  wave  of  blood  surged  to 
his  face  and  receded,  leaving  him  pale  and  trembling,  but 
with  the  intense  self-possession  sometimes  born  of  such 
moments,  he  stepped  into  the  studio  and  relighted  the 
candle  Blake  had  blown  out. 

207 


MAX 

"Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  know  my  sister?"  His 
voice  was  measured — it  gave  no  suggestion  either  of 
pleasure  or  of  pain. 

Blake,  unsuspicious,  eager  for  his  own  affairs,  followed 
him  into  the  room. 

"I  can't  define  the  desire,"  he  said;  "I  feel  that  I'd 
find  something  wonderful  behind  that  face;  I  feel  that" 
— he  paused  and  laughed  a  little—"  that  somehow  I 
should  find  you  transfigured  and  idealized  and  grown  up." 

"It  is  the  suggestion  of  me  that  intrigues  you?" 

"I  suppose  it  is — in  a  subtle  way!"  He  glanced  up, 
to  accentuate  his  words,  but  surprise  seized  him  at  sight 
of  the  boy's  white,  passionate  face.  "Why,  Max,  boy! 
What's  the  matter?" 

Max  made  a  quick  gesture,  sweeping  the  words  aside. 
"  I  am  not  sufficient  to  you?" 

Blake  stared.     "  I  don't  understand." 

"  Yet  I  speak  your  own  tongue!  I  say  '  I  am  not  suf- 
ficient to  you?'  I  have  given  you  my  friendship — my 
heart  and  my  mind,  but  I  am  not  sufficient  to  you? 
Something  more  is  required — something  else — some- 
thing different!" 

"Something  more?     Something  different?" 

"Yes!  In  this  world  it  is  always  the  outward  seem- 
ing! I  may  have  as  much  personality  as  my  sister 
Maxine;  I  may  be  as  interesting,  but  you  do  not  inquire. 
Why?     Why?     Because  I  am  a  boy — she  a  woman!" 

Blake,  uncertain  how  to  answer  this  cataract  of  words, 
took  refuge  in  banter. 

"  Don't  be  fantastical !"  he  said.  "  We  are  not  holding 
a  debate  on  sex.  If  we  are  to  be  normal,  we  must  de- 
clare that  man  and  woman  don't  compare!" 

"  Now  you  are  gambling  with  words !  I  desire  facts. 
It  is  a  fact  that  until  to-day  I  was  enough — friend  enough 
— companion  enough — ■" 

208 


MAX 

"My  child!" 

But  Max  rushed  on,  lashing  himself  to  rage. 

"  I  was  enough;  but  now  you  desire  more.  And  why  ? 
Why?  Not  because  you  discern  more  in  the  new  per- 
sonality, but  because  it  appeals  to  you  as  the  personality 
of  a  woman.  There  is  nothing  deeper — nothing  more  in 
the  affair — no  other  reason,  as  you  yourself  would  say, 
upon  God's  earth!"  He  ended  abruptly;  his  arms  fell 
to  his  sides ;  his  voice  held  in  it  a  sound  perilously  like  a 
sob. 

Blake  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  My  good  boy,"  he  said,  "  you're  forgetting  the  terms 
of  our  friendship ;  to  my  knowledge  they  never  included 
hysterics." 

The  tonic  effect  of  the  words  was  supreme;  the  sob 
was  strangled  in  Max's  throat;  a  swift,  pained  certainty 
came  to  him  that  Blake  would  not  have  spoken  these 
words  in  the  plantation  that  morning,  would  not  have 
spoken  them  as  they  raced  together  up  the  Escalier  de 
Sainte-Marie. 

"I  understand,  mon  amir  he  said,  tensely.  "I  un- 
derstand so  perfectly  that,  were  you  dying,  and  were  this 
request  your  last,  I  would  refuse  it!  I  hope  I  have 
explained  myself!" 

The  tone  was  bitter  and  contemptuous,  it  succeeded  in 
stinging  Blake.  Up  to  that  moment  he  had  played  with 
the  affair;  now  the  play  became  earnest,  his  own  temper 
was  stirred. 

"Thanks,  boy!"  he  said;  "but  when  I'm  dying  I'll 
hope  for  an  archangel  to  attend  to  my  wants — not  a 
little  cherub.  Good-night  to  you!"  Without  look  or 
gesture  of  farewell,  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  walked  out 
of  the  room. 

Once  before  this  thing  had  happened;  once  before 
Max  had  heard  the  closing  of  the  door,  and  known  the 

209 


MAX 

blank  isolation  following  upon  it.  But  then  weeks  of 
close  companionship,  weeks  of  growing  affection  had 
preceded  the  moment,  giving  strength  for  its  endurance; 
now  it  came  hot  upon  a  long  abstinence  from  friendship, 
an  abstinence  made  doubly  poignant  by  one  day's  com- 
plete reunion. 

For  a  moment  he  stood — pride  upon  his  right  hand, 
love  upon  his  left;  for  a  moment  he  stood,  waging  his 
secret  war,  then  with  amazing  suddenness,  the  issue 
was  decided,  he  capitulated  shamelessly.  Pride  melted 
into  the  night  and  love  caught  him  in  a  quick  embrace. 

Lithe  and  silent  as  some  creature  of  the  forest,  he 
was  across  the  studio  and  down  the  stairs,  his  mind 
tense,  his  desires  fixed  upon  one  point. 

Blake  was  crossing  the  dim  hallway  as  the  light  feet 
skimmed  the  last  slippery  steps;  he  paused  in  answer 
to  a  swift,  eager  call. 

"Ned!     Ned!     Wait!     Ned,  I  want  you!" 

Blake  paused;  in  the  dim  light  it  was  not  possible  to 
read  his  face,  but  something  in  the  outline  of  his  figure, 
in  the  rigidity  and  definiteness  of  his  stopping,  chilled 
the  boy  with  a  sense  of  antagonism. 

"Ned!  Ned!"  He  ran  to  him,  caught  and  clung  to 
his  arm,  put  forth  all  his  wiles. 

"Ned,  you  are  angry!     Why  are  you  angry?" 

"I  am  not  angry;  I  am  disappointed."  Some  strange 
wall  of  coldness,  at  once  intangible  and  impenetrable, 
had  risen  about  Blake.  In  fear  the  boy  beat  vain  hands 
against  it. 

"You  are  disappointed,  Ned — in  me?" 

"I  am." 

"And  why?     Why?" 

"  Because  you  have  behaved  like  a  little  fool." 

In  themselves,  the  words  were  nothing,  but  Blake's 
tone  was  serious. 

2 10 


MAX 

"And — because  of  that — you  are  disappointed?" 

Max's  voice  undeniably  shook;  and  the  fates,  peering 
into  the  dark  hallway,  smiled  as  they  pushed  the  little 
human  comedy  nearer  the  tragic  verge. 

"I  am,"  answered  Blake,  with  cruel  deliberateness. 
"  I  thought  until  to-night  that  you  were  a  reasonable 
being — a  bit  elusive,  perhaps — a  bit  wayward  and  tan- 
talizing— but  still  a  reasonable  being.     Now — " 

"Now?"  Suddenly  Max  had  a  sensation  of  being 
very  small,  very  insignificant;  suddenly  he  had  an  im- 
pression of  Blake  as  a  denizen  of  a  wider  world,  where 
other  emotions  than  laughter  and  comradeship  held 
place — and  his  heart  trembled  unreasonably. 

"Oh,  mon  chert"  he  cried.  "Forgive  me!  Forgive 
me!     Say  I  am  still  your  boy!     Say  it!     Say  it!" 

Truth  lent  passion  to  his  voice — false  passion  Blake 
esteemed  it,  and  the  cold,  imaginary  wall  became  more 
impregnable. 

"  That  '11  do,  Max!  Heroics  are  no  more  attractive  to 
me  than  hysterics.  Good-night  to  you  I"  He  freed  his 
arm  and  turned  to  the  door. 

In  the  darkness,  Max  threw  out  both  hands  in  de- 
spairing appeal. 

"Ned!  Oh,  Ned!"  he  called.  But  only  the  sound 
of  Blake's  retreating  steps  responded.  And  here  was 
no  merciful  intervention  of  gods  and  mortals,  to  make 
good  the  evil  hour;  no  pretty,  tactful  Jacqueline,  no 
M.  Cartel  with  his  magic  fiddle.  Only  the  dim  hall,  the 
lonely  stairway,  the  open  door  with  its  vision  of  cold, 
pale  stars  and  whispering  trees. 

His  misery  was  a  tangible  thing.  Like  a  lost  child, 
obsessed  by  its  own  fears,  he  bent  under  the  weight  of 
his  sorrow;  he  sank  down  upon  the  lowest  step  of  the 
stairs  and,  resting  his  head  against  the  banister,  broke 
into  pitiful,  silent  tears. 

211 


CHAPTER    XXV 

IT  was  the  morning  after  the  reunion  — the  morning 
after  the  catastrophe,  and  Blake  was  breakfasting 
alone  in  his  rooms. 

Typically  Parisian  rooms  they  were,  rooms  that  stood 
closed  and  silent  for  more  than  half  the  year  and  woke 
to  offer  him  a  welcome  when  his  wandering  footsteps 
turned  periodically  toward  Paris;  typically  Parisian, 
with  their  long  windows  and  stiffly  draped  curtains, 
their  marble  mantelpieces  and  gilt-framed  mirrors,  their 
furniture  arranged  with  a  suggestion  of  ancient  formality 
that  by  its  very  rigidity  soothed  the  eye. 

At  the  moment,  evidences  of  Blake's  unusually  long 
occupancy  broke  this  stiffness  in  many  directions;  in- 
timate trifles  that  speak  a  man's  presence  were  strewn 
here  and  there — objects  of  utility,  objects  of  value  and 
interest  gathered  upon  his  last  long  journey.  Eminent- 
ly pleasant  the  salon  appeared  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
May  morning — full  of  air  and  light,  its  gray  carpet  and 
gray-panelled  walls  making  an  agreeably  neutral  setting 
to  the  household  gods  of  a  gentleman  of  leisure.  But 
the  gentleman  in  question,  so  agreeably  situated,  seemed 
to  find  his  state  less  gratifying  than  it  might  appear;  a 
sense  of  dissatisfaction  possessed  him,  as  he  sat  at  his 
solitary  meal,  a  sense  of  dulness  and  loss  most  tenacious 
of  hold. 

More  than  once  he  roundly  called  himself  a  fool; 
more  than  once  he  shook  out  the  thin  sheets  of  his  morn- 

212 


MAX 

ing  paper  and  buried  himself  in  their  contents,  but  un- 
availingly.  The  feeling  of  flatness,  the  sense  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  the  world  as  it  stood,  grew  instead  of 
diminishing.  At  last,  throwing  down  the  paper,  he 
gave  up  the  unequal  struggle  and  yielded  to  the  pessi- 
mistic pleasure  of  self-analysis.  He  recalled  last  night 
and  its  vexatious  trend  of  events,  and  with  something 
akin  to  shame,  he  remembered  his  anger  against  Max; 
but  although  he  admitted  its  possible  exaggeration,  the 
admission  brought  no  palliation  of  Max's  offence.  He, 
possibly,  had  behaved  like  a  brute;  but  Max  had  be- 
haved like  an  imbecile! 

At  this  point,  he  fell  to  staring  fixedly  in  front  of  him, 
and  through  the  meshes  of  his  day-dream  floated  a 
face — not  the  face  of  the  boy  he  was  condemning,  but 
that  of  the  mysterious  cause  of  last  night's  calamity. 

He  conjured  it  with  quite  astonishing  vividness — the 
face  of  the  portrait — the  face  so  like,  so  unlike,  the  boy's. 
Every  detail  of  the  picture  assailed  him;  the  subtle 
illusion  of  the  mirror — the  strange,  reflected  eyes  pro- 
pounding their  riddle. 

Looking  in  imagination  into  those  eyes,  he  lost  him- 
self delightfully.  Sensations,  periods  of  time  passed 
and  repassed  in  his  brain — speculation,  desire,  and 
memory  danced  an  enchanting,  tangled  measure. 

He  recalled  the  hundred  fancies  that  had  held,  or 
failed  to  hold  him  in  his  thirty-eight  years;  he  recalled 
the  women  who  had  loved  too  little,  the  women  who 
had  loved  too  much;  and,  quick  upon  the  recollection, 
came  the  consciousness  of  the  disillusion  that  had  in- 
evitably followed  upon  adventure. 

He  did  not  ask  .himself  why  these  dreams  should  stir, 
why  these  ghosts  should  materialize  and  kiss  light  hands 
to  him  in  the  blue  brilliance  of  this  May  morning;  he 
realized  nothing  but  that  behind  them  all — a  reality  in 

213 


MAX 

a  world  of  shadows — he  saw  the  eyes  of  the  picture  in- 
sistently propounding  their  riddle — the  riddle,  the  ques- 
tion that  from  youth  upward  had  rankled,  inarticulate, 
in  his  own  soul. 

It  arose  now,  renewed,  with  his  acknowledgment  of 
it — the  troubling,  insistent  question  that  cries  in  every 
human  brain,  sometimes  softly,  like  a  child  sobbing  out- 
side a  closed  door,  sometimes  loudly  and  terribly,  like 
a  man  in  agony.  The  eternal  question  ringing  through 
the  ages. 

He  recognized  it,  clear  as  the  spoken  word,  in  this 
unknown  woman's  gaze;  and  for  the  first  time  in  all 
his  life  the  desire  to  make  answer  quickened  within 
him.  He,  who  had  invariably  sought,  invariably  ques- 
tioned, suddenly  craved  to  make  reply! 

An  incurable  dreamer,  the  fancy  took  him  and  he 
yielded  to  its  glamour.  How  delightful  to  know  and 
study  that  exquisite  face!  How  fascinating  beyond  all 
words  to  catch  the  fleeting  semblance  of  his  charming 
Max — to  lose  it  in  the  woman's  seriousness — to  touch 
it  again  in  some  gleam  of  boyish  humor!  It  was  a 
quaint  conceit,  apart  from,  untouched  by  any  previous 
experience.  Its  subtlety  possessed  him;  existence  sud- 
denly took  on  form  and  purpose;  the  depression,  the 
sense  of  loss  dispersed  as  morning  clouds  before  the 
sun. 

He  rose,  forgetful  of  his  unfinished  meal,  his  vitality 
stirring,  his  curiosity  kindling  as  it  had  not  kindled  for 
years. 

What,  all  things  reckoned,  stood  between  him  and 
this  alluring  study?     A  boy!     A  mere  boy! 

No  thought  came  to  him  of  the  boy  himself — the  in- 
strument of  the  desire.  No  thought  came;  for  every 
human  creature  is  a  pure  egoist  in  the  first  stirring  of  a 
passion,  and  stalks  his  quarry  with  blind  haste,  fearful 

214 


MAX 

that  at  any  turn  he  may  be  balked  by  time  or  circum- 
stance. Later,  when  grief  has  chastened,  or  joy  cleansed 
him,  the  altruist  may  peep  forth,  but  never  in  the 
primary  moment. 

With  no  thought  of  the  clinging  hands  and  beseeching 
voice  of  last  night — with  no  knowledge  of  a  mournful 
figure  that  had  dragged  itself  up  the  stairway  of  the 
house  in  the  rue  Muller  and  sobbed  itself  to  sleep  in  a 
lonely  bed,  he  walked  across  the  room  to  his  writing- 
table  and  calmly  picked  up  a  pen. 

He  dipped  the  pen  into  the  ink  and  selected  a  sheet 
of  note-paper;  then,  as  he  bent  to  write,  impatience 
seized  him,  he  tore  the  paper  across  and  took  up  a  tele- 
graph form. 

On  this  he  wrote  the  simple  message: 

Will  you  allow  me  to  meet  your  sister? — Ned. 

It  was  brief,  it  was  informal,  it  was  entirely  unjusti- 
fiable. But  what  circumstance  in  his  relation  to  the 
boy  had  lent  itself  either  to  formality  or  justification  ? 

He  rang  the  bell,  dispatched  his  message,  and  then 
sat  down  to  wait. 

His  attitude  in  that  matter  of  waiting  was  entirely 
characteristic.  He  did  not  arrange  his  action  in  the 
event  of  defeat;  he  did  not  speculate  upon  probable 
triumph.  The  affair  had  passed  out  of  his  hands;  the 
future  was  upon  the  knees  of  the  gods! 

He  did  not  finish  his  breakfast  in  that  time  of  pro- 
bation; he  did  not  again  take  up  the  paper  he  had 
thrown  aside.  He  made  no  effort  to  occupy  or  to 
amuse  himself;  he  merely  waited,  and  in  due  time  the 
gods  gave  him  a  sign — a  telegraphic  message,  brief  and 
concise  as  his  own: 

Come  to-night  at  ten.     She  will  be  here. — Max. 

215 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AT  ten  o'clock,  punctual  to  the  moment,  Blake 
walked  up  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie.  All  day 
a  curious  agitation  compounded  of  elation  and  impatience 
had  lifted  him  as  upon  wings,  but  now  that  the  hour  had 
arrived,  doubt  amounting  almost  to  reluctance  assailed 
his  spirit.  He  walked  slowly,  looking  about  him  as 
though  the  way  were  strange;  outside  the  house  in  the 
rue  Muller  he  paused  and  glanced  up  at  the  fifth  floor, 
suddenly  daunted,  suddenly  thrilled  by  the  faint  light 
coming  mistily  through  the  open  windows  of  the  salon 
and  the  studio. 

What  would  she  be  like — this  sister  of  Max?  He 
strove  ineffectually  to  materialize  the  portrait,  but  it 
eluded  him.  Only  the  soul  of  the  woman  seemed  to 
have  place  in  his  imagination — the  soul,  seen  through 
the  questioning  eyes. 

Still  a  victim  to  the  strange,  new  reticence,  he  entered 
the  open  doorway  and  began  the  familiar  ascent.  Here 
again  the  thought  of  the  woman  obsessed  him.  How 
must  this  place  appear  to  her?  His  thoughts  touched 
the  varying  scenes  of  Max's  story — scenes  of  the  girl's 
free  youth  and  sumptuous,  exotic  after-life.  None  fitted 
accurately  with  a  rue  Muller.  Of  a  certainty  she,  as  well 
as  the  boy,  must  have  the  adventuring  spirit! 

His  senses  stirred,  routing  his  diffidence,  and  under 
their  spur  he  ran  up  the  remaining  steps,  only  pausing 
at  the  fifth  floor  as  a  light  voice  hailed  him  out  of  the 

216 


MAX 

dusk,  a  little  flitting  figure  darted  from  the  shadows, 
and  Jacqueline,  brimming  with  suppressed  excitement, 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Monsieur  Edouard !" 

He  laughed  in  recognition  and  greeting.  "Well, 
Jacqueline!  Always  the  air  of  the  grand  secret!  Al- 
ways the  air  of  the  little  bird  that  has  discovered  the  top- 
most bough  of  the  tree!     What  is  it  to-night?" 

His  feelings  were  running  riot;  it  was  agreeable  to 
spend  them  in  badinage.  But  Jacqueline  slapped  his 
hand  in  reproof. 

"  No  pleasantries,  monsieur!     The  affair  is  serious." 

He  smiled;  he  lowered  his  voice  to  the  tone  of  hers. 
"  You  have  a  visitor,  then,  Jacqueline,  to  this  fifth  floor 
of  yours?" 

Jacqueline  nodded  her  blonde  head,  and  again  her  ex- 
citement brimmed  full  measure. 

"Monsieur,  she  is  here—the  sister  of  M.  Max!  The 
princess!"  She  whispered  the  last  word — a  whisper  de- 
licious, tremulous  with  the  weight  of  actual  romance. 

Blake  heard  it,  and  his  own  heart  stirred  to  a  joyous 
youthful  sensation.  It  was  so  naive,  so  charming,  so 
absolutely  French. 

"The  princess!"  he  whispered  back  in  just  the  ex- 
pected tone.     "Jacqueline,  is  she  beautiful ?" 

Jacqueline  threw  up  her  hands,  invoked  heaven  with 
her  eyes,  earth  with  her  shrugging  shoulders. 

"Monsieur,  she  is  ravishing!" 

Blake's  expressive  answer  was  to  put  her  gently  aside 
and  step  toward  Max's  door. 

But  she  was  after  him  with  a  little  cry.  "  Monsieur, 
not  yet!  I  must  deliver  my  message!  The  message  of 
M.  Max!" 

"Of  M.  Max?" 

"  But  yes,  monsieur!"     Her  hands,  her  whole  body  ex- 

217 


MAX 

pressed  apology  and  eager  explanation.  "M.  Max  has 
been  called  away — upon  a  business  of  much  importance. 
M.  Max  desires  his  profoundest,  his  most  affectionate  ex- 
cuses— and  will  monsieur  place  him  under  a  debt  never 
possible  of  repayment  by  entering  the  appartement — by 
entertaining  the  princess  during  his  absence?" 

Blake  stared     "  In  the  name  of  Heaven — " 

But  Jacqueline's  white  hands  again  made  free  with 
his  arm. 

"Monsieur,  Heaven  will  arrange!  Heaven  is  bounti- 
ful in  these  affairs!" 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  He  has  gone  upon  business, 
you  say  ?     He  never  had  any  business." 

Jacqueline  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands.  "  Do  not 
be  too  sure,  monsieur!  He  is  growing  up,  is  M.  Max!" 
She  gave  another  little  twittering  laugh  of  sheer  de- 
light. 

"Come,  monsieur!  The  princess  is  alone.  It  is  not 
gallant  to  keep  a  lady  waiting!" 

"  But  you  don't  understand,  Jacqueline.  It  is  im- 
possible— impossible  that  I  should  intrude — " 

"It  is  no  intrusion,  monsieur!  I  have  explained 
everything  to  madame — and  she  expects  you!"  She 
flitted  past  him  to  the  door,  threw  it  open  and  dropped 
him  a  pretty,  impertinent  curtsy. 

"Now,  monsieur!"  she  commanded;  and  Blake,  half 
amused,  half  resentful,  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to 
obey. 

He  stepped  across  the  threshold;  he  heard  Jacqueline 
laugh  again  softly  and  close  the  door;  then  he  stood,  a 
prey  to  profound  trepidation. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  hesitating  between  flight  and 
advance,  then  shame  at  his  weakness  forced  him  to  go 
forward  and  open  the  salon  door. 

As  he  opened  it,  another  change  took  place  within  him; 

218 


MAX 

his  diffidence  forsook  him,  his  excitement  was  allayed  as, 
by  a  restraining  hand,  he  was  dominated  by  a  peculiar 
clarity  of  vision. 

This  accentuated  keenness  of  observation  came  into 
action  even  in  a  material  sense;  as  he  passed  into  the 
familiar  room,  each  object  appealed  to  him  in  its  ap- 
pointed place — in  its  just  and  proper  value.  The  quaint 
odd  articles  of  furniture  that  he  and  Max  had  chosen  in 
company!  The  pictures  that  he  had  hung  upon  the 
white  walls  at  Max's  bidding!  The  Russian  samovar, 
the  books,  the  open  cigarette-box,  each  of  which  spoke 
and  breathed  of  Max! 

Every  object  came  to  him  clearly  in  the  quiet  light  of 
the  lamp  upon  the  bureau;  it  seemed  like  the  setting 
of  a  play,  where  the  atmosphere  had  been  carefully 
created,  the  details  definitely  woven  into  a  perfect 
chain. 

He  stood,  looking  upon  the  silent  room,  wondering 
what  would  happen — convinced  that  something  must 
happen ;  and  at  last,  with  the  same  quietness — the  same 
intense  naturalness,  perfect  as  extreme  art — a  slight 
sound  came  from  the  balcony  and  a  woman  stepped  into 
the  subdued  light. 

She  stepped  into  the  quiet  lamplight  and  paused ;  and 
Blake's  first  subconscious  feeling  was  that,  miraculously, 
the  empty  room  had  taken  on  life  and  meaning — that 
this  sudden,  gracious  presence  filled  and  possessed  it 
absolutely  and  by  right  divine. 

She  seemed  very  tall  as  she  stood  looking  down  into 
the  room,  her  rich  hair  crowning  her  head,  her  young 
figure  clothed  in  white  and  wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  soft 
mysterious  gray  that  fell  from  her  shoulders  simply,  yet 
with  the  dignity  of  a  royal  mantle. 

She  stood  for  a  full  minute,  looking  at  him,  almost  it 
seemed  sharing  his  own  uncertainty;   then,  with  a  little 

219 


MAX 

gesture  that  irresistibly  conjured  Max,  she  stepped  into 
the  room — and  into  his  life. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  very  softly,  "I  am  the  sister 
of  Max;  you  are  his  friend.  It  is  surely  meant  that  we 
know  each  other  1" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  a  perfect  moment;  one  of  those  rare  and  deli- 
cate spaces  of  time  in  which  Fate's  fingers  seem  to 
strike  a  chord  at  once  poignant  and  satisfying,  faint  and 
far-reaching.  The  lamp-lit  room,  the  open  window  and, 
beyond,  the  balcony  veiled  in  the  obscurity  of  the  night! 
It  was  a  fair  setting  for  romance;  and  romance,  young, 
beautiful,  gracious  as  in  the  fairy-tale,  had  emerged 
from  it  into  Blake's  life.  A  smile,  a  word — and  an 
atmosphere  had  been  created!  The  things  of  the  past 
were  obscured,  and  the  things  of  the  present  made 
omnipotent. 

"What  a  brother  this  is  of  mine!"  Maxine  smiled 
again  with  a  little  quiver  of  humor  that  set  her  eyes 
alight  "  Is  it  not  like  him  to  invite  me  to  criticise  my 
portrait,  and  leave  me  to  receive  his  friend?" 

She  spoke,  not  in  the  English  which  Max  invariably 
used,  but  in  French;  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  en- 
tangled Blake's  senses.  It  seemed  the  boy's  voice  at 
its  lowest  and  tenderest,  but  touched  with  new  inflec- 
tions tantalizing  as  they  were  delightful.  Self-con- 
sciousness fled  before  it;  he  was  at  one  with  the  sister 
as  he  had  been  at  one  with  the  brother  on  the  crisp 
white  morning  when  comradeship  had  been  sealed  to 
the  marching  of  soldiers'  feet  and  the  rattle  of  fife  and 
drum. 

"  Princess,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  as  frank  as  Max  him- 
self would  be !     The  situation  is  overwhelming ;  do  with 

15  221 


MAX 

me  what  you  will!  If  I  intrude,  dismiss  me!  I  know 
how  fascinating  solitude  on  this  balcony  can  be." 

She  smiled  again,  but  gravely  with  a  hint  of  the  por- 
trait's mystery. 

"  Solitude  is  an  excellent  thing,  monsieur,  but  to-night 
I  think  I  need  the  solace  of  a  fellow-being.  Will  you 
not  stay  and  keep  me  company?" 

He  looked  at  the  smiling  lips,  the  serious,  searching 
eyes,  and  he  spoke  his  thoughts  impulsively. 

"I  shall  be  the  most  honored  man  in  Paris!" 

"That  is  well!  Then  we  will  talk,  and  watch  the 
stars." 

Here  the  naive  imperiousness  of  the  boy  gleamed  out, 
familiar  and  reassuring,  and  Maxine  walked  across  the 
room,  turning  at  the  window  to  look  back  for  Blake. 

"He  is  not  without  appreciation — this  little  brother 
of  mine?"  She  put  the  question  softly,  tentatively,  as 
she  and  Blake  leaned  over  the  balcony  railing. 

"  He  is  an  artist,  princess." 

"You  think  so?"  Her  voice  warmed  and  vibrated; 
through  the  vague  darkness  he  felt  her  eyes  search  his 
face. 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Ah,  you  love  him?"  The  voice  dropped  to  a  great 
gentleness — a  gentleness  that  touched  him  in  a  strange 
degree. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  you  what  he  has  been 
to  me,"  he  said.  "Our  friendship  has  been  a  thing  of 
great  value.     Has  he  ever  told  you  how  we  met?" 

"  He  has  told  me!"  Her  tone  was  still  low — still 
curiously  attractive.  "  And  he  appreciates  very  highly, 
monsieur,  the  affection  you  have  given  him." 

She  paused;  and  Blake,  looking  down  upon  Paris, 
was  conscious  of  that  pause  as  of  something  pregnant 
and  miraculous.     It  filled  the  moment,  combining,  with 

222 


MAX 

the  soft  texture  of  her  garments  and  the  faint  scent 
from  her  hair,  to  weave  a  spell  subtle  as  it  was  intan- 
gible. 

"There  is  nothing  to  appreciate,"  he  made  answer. 
"  I  am  merely  a  commonplace  mortal  who  found  in  him 
something  uncommon.  The  appreciation  is  mine  en- 
tirely— the  appreciation  of  the  youth,  the  vitality  he 
expresses." 

"Ah,  but  you  do  yourself  an  injustice!"  She  spoke 
impulsively  and,  as  if  alarmed  at  her  own  eagerness, 
broke  off  and  began  anew  in  a  soberer  voice.  "  I  mean, 
monsieur,  that  friendship  is  not  a  solitary  affair.  What- 
ever you  discerned  in  Max,  Max  must  equally  have  dis- 
cerned in  you." 

"I  wonder!"  He  turned  his  gaze  from  the  lights  of 
the  city  to  the  rustling  trees  of  the  plantation.  The 
hour  was  magical,  the  situation  beyond  belief.  Stand- 
ing there  upon  the  balcony,  suspended  as  it  were  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth,  companioned  by  this  wonder- 
ful, familiar,  unfamiliar  being,  he  seemed  to  see  his  own 
soul — to  see  it  from  afar  off  and  with  a  great  lucidity. 
"I  wonder!"  he  said  again;  and  the  sadness,  the  dis- 
content that  stalked  him  in  lonely  moments  touched 
him  briefly,  like  the  shadow  of  a  travelling  cloud. 

"What  do  you  wonder,  monsieur?" 

"The  meaning  of  it  all,  princess!  Existence  is  such 
a  chase.  I,  perhaps,  hunt  friendship — and  find  Max; 
I,  perhaps,  dream  that  I  have  found  my  goal,  while  to 
him  I  may  be  but  a  wayside  inn — a  place  to  linger  in 
and  leave!  We  both  follow  the  chase,  but  who  can  say 
if  we  mark  the  same  quarry?     It's  a  puzzling  world!" 

"Monsieur,  it  is  sometimes  a  glorious  world!"  So 
swift  was  her  change  of  voice,  so  impulsive  the  gesture 
with  which  she  turned  to  him,  that  the  vividness  of  a 
suggested  Max  startled  him.     She  was  infinitely  like  to 

223 


MAX 

Max — Max  when  life  intoxicated  him,  when  he  threw  out 
both  arms  to  embrace  it. 

"When  you  look  like  that,  princess,"  he  cried,  "I 
could  forget  everything — I  could  take  your  hand,  and 
show  you  all  my  heart,  for  you  literally  are  the  boy  i" 

There  was  another  pause — a  pause  fraught  with 
poignant  things.  Standing  there,  between  heaven  and 
earth,  they  were  no  longer  creatures  of  conventionality, 
fettered  by  individual  worlds.  They  were  two  souls  con- 
scious of  an  affinity. 

Briefly,  sweetly,  Maxine's  fingers  touched  his  hand  and 
then  withdrew.     "Monsieur,  in  moments  I  am  Max!" 

Nothing  of  surprise,  nothing  of  question  came  to  him. 
He  only  knew  that  a  touch,  infinitely  desired,  had  lighted 
upon  him — that  a  comprehension  born  of  immaterial 
things  was  luring  him  whither  he  knew  not. 

"You  are  Max,  princess,"  he  said,  swiftly,  "but  Max 
suddenly  made  possessor  of  a  soul!  I've  always  fancied 
Max  a  mythical  being — a  creature  of  eternal  youth, 
fascinating  as  he  is  elusive — a  faun-like  creature,  peeping 
into  the  world  from  some  secret  grove,  ready  to  dart 
back  at  any  human  touch.  Max's  lips  were  made  for 
laughter;    his  eyes  are  too  bright  for  tears." 

"  And  I,  monsieur  ?     What  am  I  ?" 

"  You  are  the  miracle !  You  are  the  elusive  creature 
deserting  the  green  groves — stepping  voluntarily  into  the 
mortal  world." 

"  Yet  if  you  know  of  me  at  all,  you  must  know  that  I 
have  left  the  mortal  world  and  am  seeking  the  secret 
groves." 

"I  have  been  told  that." 

"  And  you  disbelieve  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid,  princess,  I  do."  He  turned  and  looked 
at  her — at  the  slim  body  wrapped  in  its  long,  smooth 
cloak  of  velvet — at  the  shadowed,  questioning  eyes.     "  I 

224 


MAX 

know  I  am  greatly  daring,  but  there  are  moments  when 
we  are  outside  ourselves — when  we  know  and  speak 
things  of  which  we  can  give  no  logical  account.  You 
have  put  life  behind  you;  yet  what  is  life  but  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp  ?  Who  can  say  where  the  light  may  not  break 
forth  again?" 

"  But  have  we  not  power  over  our  senses,  monsieur  ? 
Can  we  not  shut  our  eyes,  even  if  the  light  does  break 
forth?" 

"No,  princess,  we  cannot!  Because  nature  will  in- 
evitably say,  '  I  have  given  you  eyes  with  which  to  see. 
Open  those  eyes'!" 

"Ah,  there  we  differ,  monsieur!" 

Blake  laughed.  "There,  princess,  you  are  the  boy! 
He,  too,  thinks  he  can  cheat  nature;  but  I  preach  my 
gospel  to  him,  I  tell  him  Nature  will  have  her  own.  If 
we  will  not  bend  to  her,  she  will  take  and  break  us.  Ah, 
but  listen  to  that!" 

His  discourse  broke  off ;  they  both  involuntarily  raised 
their  heads  and  looked  toward  the  windows  of  the 
neighboring  appartement. 

"Princess!"  he  said,  delightedly.  "I  wouldn't  have 
had  you  miss  this  for  ten  thousand  pounds!  Has  Max 
described  his  neighbor,  M.  Cartel  ?  I  tell  you  you  will 
have  a  little  of  heaven  when  M.  Cartel  plays  Louise!" 

Very  delicately,  with  a  curious  human  clarity  of  sound, 
the  violin  of  M.  Cartel  executed  the  first  notes  of  Louise's 
declaration  in  the  duet  with  Julian — '  Depuis  le  jour  ou 
je  me  suis  donnee!'  One  caught  the  whole  intention  of 
the  composer  in  the  few  crystal  notes — one  figured  the 
whole  scene — the  little  house  of  love,  the  lovers  in  their 
Garden  of  Eden,  and  below  Paris — symbolic  Paris! 

"  You  know  Louise,  princess  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,  I  know  Louise." 

All  was  clear,  all  was  understood  in  that  brief  reply. 

225 


MAX 

A  wide  contentment,  vitalized  by  excitement,  lifted  the 
soul  of  Blake.  Leaning  over  the  balcony  railing,  drink- 
ing in  the  music  of  M.  Cartel,  more  than  a  little  of  heaven 
opened  to  him;  a  unique  emotion  thrilled  him — a  con- 
sciousness of  sublimity,  a  sense  of  being  part  of  some 
unfathomable  yet  perfect  scheme.  The  music  wove  its 
story;  the  lovers  became  one  with  his  own  existence,  as 
he  himself  was  one  with  the  stars  above  him  and  the 
lights  below.  He  followed  every  note,  and  in  his  own 
brain  was  spun  the  subtle  thread  that  bound  Julian  and 
Louise;  his  own  fancy  ran  the  gamut  of  their  emotions 
from  mere  human  reminiscence  to  overwhelming  passion. 

As  he  listened,  his  first  hearing  of  M.  Cartel's  fiddle 
crept  back  upon  the  feet  of  memory,  and  with  it  the 
recollection  of  the  boy's  rapture,  the  boy's  wayward 
breaking  of  the  spell  and  denial  of  the  truth  of  love. 
Cautiously  he  moved  his  head  and  stole  a  glance  at  his 
companion,  summing  up  the  contrast  between  the  present 
and  the  past. 

Maxine  was  leaning  forward,  in  thrall  to  the  music: 
her  gray  cloak  had  fallen  slightly  back,  displaying  her 
white  dress — her  white  neck;  her  hands  were  clasped, 
her  eyes — the  woman's  eyes,  the  eyes  of  mystery — gazed 
into  profound  space. 

He  held  himself  rigid ;  he  dared  not  stir,  lest  he  should 
brush  her  cloak;  he  scarce  dared  breathe,  lest  he  should 
break  her  dream.  A  feeling  akin  to  adoration  awakened 
in  him,  and  as  if  in  expression  of  the  emotion,  the  violin 
of  M.  Cartel  cried  out  the  supreme  confession  of  the 
lovers,  Louise's  enraptured  'C'est  le  Paradis!  C'est  une 
feerie!',  and  Julian's  answer,  intoxicating  as  wine, '  Non! 
C'est  la  vie!  VEternelle,  la  toute-puissante  vie!' 

And  there,  with  the  whimsicality  of  the  artist,  the  bow 
of  M.  Cartel  was  lifted,  and  sharp,  pregnant  silence  fell 
upon  the  night. 

226 


MAX 

Blake  turned  to  Maxine;  and  Maxine,  with  lips  parted, 
eyes  dark  with  thought,  met  his  regard. 

For  one  second  her  impulse  seemed  to  sway  to  words, 
her  body  to  yield  to  some  gracious,  drooping  enchant- 
ment; then,  swiftly  as  M.  Cartel  had  called  up  silence, 
she  recalled  herself — straightened  her  body  and  lifted  her 
head. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  with  dignity,  "  I  thank  you  for 
your  kindness  and  for  your  companionship— and  I  bid 
you  good-night!" 

The  swiftness  of  his  dismissal  scarcely  touched  Blake. 
Already  she  was  his  sovereign  lady — her  look  a  command, 
her  word  paramount. 

"As  you  will,  princess!" 

She  held  out  her  hand;  and  taking,  he  bowed  over, 
but  did  not  kiss  it. 

She  smiled,  conceiving  his  desire  and  his  restraint. 

"  I  shall  convey  to  Max  how  charmingly  you  have 
entertained  me,  monsieur  and,  perhaps — "  Her  voice 
dropped  to  its  softest  note. 

Blake  looked  up. 

"  Perhaps,  princess —  ?" 

She  smiled  again,  half  diffidently.  "  Nothing,  mon- 
sieur!    Good-night!" 

"Good-night!" 

He  left  her  to  the  gray  mystery  of  the  stars,  and 
passed  back  through  the  quiet,  lamp-lit  room  and  down 
the  slippery  stairs  that  led  to  the  mundane  world;  and 
with  each  step  he  took,  each  breath  he  drew,  the  words 
from  Louise  repeated  themselves,  justifying  all  things, 
glorifying  all  things:  ' C'est  la  vie!  I'Etemelle,  la  toute' 
puissanie  vie!' 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BLAKE  must  have  reached  the  last  step  of  the 
Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie,  must  indeed  have  turned 
the  corner  of  the  rue  Andre  de  Sarte  before  the  creaking 
of  a  footstep  or  the  opening  of  a  door  disturbed  the 
silence  of  the  fifth  floor;  but,  due  time  having  expired 
— due  deference  having  been  paid  to  taste  and  the  pro- 
prieties— the  handle  of  M.  Cartel's  door  was  very  softly 
turned,  and  Jacqueline  slipped  forth  into  the  shadowed 
landing. 

Never  were  human  curiosity  and  feminine  craft  more 
signally  displayed  than  in  the  slim  little  form  creeping 
on  tiptoe,  the  astute,  piquante  little  face  thrust  forth  into 
the  dark.  Across  the  landing  she  stole,  and  with  deft 
fingers  opened  Max's  door  without  a  sound. 

Here,  in  the  narrow  hallway,  she  paused  and  called 
gently,  "Monsieur  Max!"  But  as  no  voice  answered, 
she  crept  to  the  salon  door  and,  with  a  little  comedy  of 
smiles  all  for  her  own  diversion  called  again  with  pursed 
lips  and  in  a  stage  whisper:    "Madame!     Madame!" 

It  carried — this  portentous  word — across  the  quiet 
room  to  the  balcony  where  Maxine  was  lingering;  it 
drew  from  her  a  little  'oh,'  of  consternation;  finally, 
it  brought  her  running  across  the  room  to  her  visitor. 

Jacqueline,  lynx-eyed,  stood  and  looked  at  her — not- 
ing how  flushed  she  was,  how  youthful-looking,  how 
unguarded  and  brimming  with  emotion. 

"  Madame!"  she  cried.  "  I  know  without  a  word!  It 
has  been  a  grand  success." 

228 


"•     TOUI  W». 


•C'EST   LA    VII-  f       VETERNELLE,    LA     TOUTE-PVISSANTIi    VII  r 


MAX 

Maxine  laughed,  a  girlish  laugh  of  self-betrayal.  "A 
grand  success!  Absolutely  a  grand  success!  And, 
Jacqueline" — she  hesitated,  laughed  again  with  charm- 
ing self-consciousness,  rushed  afresh  into  speech — 
"Jacqueline,  he  thought  me  beautiful!  Not  a  word 
was  said,  but  I  know  he  thought  me  beautiful.  Tell 
me!  Am  I  beautiful?"  Swiftly,  as  might  the  boy,  she 
threw  off  her  velvet  cloak,  letting  it  fall  to  the  ground, 
and  showed  herself  tall  and  supple  and  straight  in  her 
white  dress. 

Jacqueline  rushed  forward  warmly,  caught  and  kissed 
her  hand. 

"Madame,  you  are  ravishing!"  And,  with  her  pretty 
native  practicality,  she  picked  up  the  cloak,  carefully 
folded  and  carefully  laid  it  aside. 

'Ravishing!"  Maxine  laughed  once  more.  "Jacque- 
line, I  am  something  more  than  that!  I  am  happy!" 
She  threw  out  her  arms,  as  if  to  embrace  the  universe. 
"  I  am  happier  than  the  saints  in  heaven !  I  am  living 
in  the  moment,  and  the  moment  is  perfection!  I  care 
nothing  that  yesterday  I  wept,  that  to-morrow  I  may 
weep  again.  I  am  alive  and  I  am  happy.  I  feel  as  I 
used  to  feel  at  fifteen  years  old,  galloping  a  spirited 
horse.  The  whole  world  is  sublime — from  the  dust  in 
the  streets  to  the  stars  in  the  sky!"  She  forgot  her 
companion,  her  speech  broke  off,  she  turned  and  began 
to  pace  the  room  with  head  thrown  back,  hands  clasped 
behind  her  with  careless,  boyish  ease. 

For  a  while  Jacqueline  watched  her,  diligently  sifting 
out  every  emotional  sign;  then,  deeming  that  some 
moment  of  her  own  choosing  had  arrived,  she  slipped 
unobserved  from  the  room,  to  return  a  minute  later 
bearing  a  kettle  full  of  boiling  water. 

Maxine  looked  round  as  she  made  her  entry. 

"A  kettle,  Jacqueline?" 

229 


MAX 

"For  madame's  tea.  And,  my  God,  but  it  is  hot!" 
She  set  it  down  hastily  in  the  fireplace,  and  sucked  her 
finger  with  a  pouting  smile. 

Maxine  smiled,  too,  coming  back  from  her  dream  with 
vague  graciousness.     "But  I  do  not  need  tea." 

Jacqueline  did  not  refute  the  statement,  but  merely 
began  to  manipulate  the  samovar  in  the  manner  learned 
of  Max,  while  Maxine,  yielding  to  her  own  delicious 
exaltation,  fell  again  to  her  long,  slow  pacing  of  the  floor. 

Presently  the  inviting  smell  of  tea  began  to  pervade 
the  room,  and  Jacqueline  set  out  a  cup  and  saucer — 
Max's  first  purchase  from  old  Bluebeard  of  the  curios. 

"Madame  is  served!"  She  stood  behind  the  chair 
ordained  for  Maxine,  very  sedate,  very  assured  of  her 
own  arrangements. 

Maxine  paused,  as  though  the  suggestion  of  tea  was 
brought  to  her  for  the  first  time. 

"How  delightful!"  she  said,  with  swift,  serene  pleas- 
ure.    "How  kind!     How  thoughtful!" 

"Seat  yourself,  madame!" 

The  chair  was  drawn  forward;  the  just  and  proper 
thrill  of  preparation  was  conveyed  by  Jacqueline;  and 
Maxine  seated  herself,  still  in  her  smiling  dream. 

Half  the  cup  of  tea  was  consumed  under  Jacqueline's 
watchful  eye,  then  she  stole  round  the  chair. 

"Madame,  a  cigarette?"  Her  fingers  crept  to  the 
cigarette-box,  then  found  and  struck  a  match,  all  with 
a  deft,  unobtrusive  quiet  that  won  its  way  undenied. 

The  cigarette  was  lighted,  Maxine  leaned  back  in  her 
chair,  Jacqueline's  confidential  moment  was  secured. 

"And  so,  madame,  it  was  a  grand  success?" 

Maxine  looked  up.  The  first  fine  ecstasy  was  past; 
the  after-glow  of  deep  contentment  curled  round  her 
with  the  cigarette  smoke ;  she  was  the  pliant  reed  to  the 
soft  wind  of  Jacqueline's  whispering. 

230 


MAX 

"It  was  past  belief,"  she  answered,  "past  all  belief. 
We  stood  together  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  looked 
each  other  in  the  eyes,  and  he  never  guessed.  He  never 
guessed — he,  who  has —     Oh,  it  was  past  belief!" 

"Ah!"  murmured  Jacqueline,  complacently.  "I  told 
madame  I  had  a  quite  extraordinary  talent  in  the  dress- 
ing of  hair — though  madame  was  sceptical !  And  as  for 
the  purchase  of  clothes.  Did  he  admire  madame's  velvet 
cloak?" 

Maxine  smiled  tolerantly.     "Of  course  he  did  not!" 

Jacqueline  cast  up  her  eyes  to  heaven.  "  These  Eng- 
lish— they  are  extraordinary!  But  I  tell  you  this, 
madame,  he  knew  here" — she  touched  her  heart  — 
"he  knew  here,  that  madame  looked  what  she  is — a 
queen!" 

"Absurd  child!" 

The  reproof  was  gentle;  Jacqueline's  nimble  tongue 
took  advantage  of  the  chance  given  it. 

"  And  tell  me,  madame  ?  He  play  his  part  gallantly — 
Monsieur  Edouard?"  Never  before  had  she  dared  so 
much ;  but  never  before  had  Maxine's  eyes  looked  as  they 
looked  to-night. 

Before  replying,  Maxine  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table 
and  took  her  face  between  her  hands. 

"  It  was  past  belief — that  also !"  she  said  at  last.  "  He 
seemed  a  different  being.     I  cannot  understand  it." 

"  He  seemed  of  a  greater  interest,  madame  ?" 

"Of  a  strangely  greater  interest." 

"  In  what  manner,  madame  ?  Looks  ?  Words  ?"  Cun- 
ning as  a  monkey,  little  Jacqueline  was  all  soft  innocence 
in  the  method  of  her  questioning. 

"  In  every  way  —  manner  —  speech  —  expression  of 
thought.  And,  Jacqueline" — she  turned  her  face,  all 
radiant  and  unsuspicious,  to  her  interlocutor — "  I  made 
a  discovery!     He  loves  Max!" 

231 


MAX 

Jacqueline,  with  downcast  eyes  and  discreet  bearing, 
carefully  removed  the  empty  tea-cup. 

"Yes,  he  loves  me  as  Max!  He  told  me  so.  It  has 
made  me  marvellously  happy — marvellously  happy  and, 
also" — she  sighed — "also,  Jacqueline,  just  a  little  sad!" 

"  Sad,  madame  ?" 

"  Yes,  sad  because  he  loves  Max  as  one  loves  a  child, 
expecting  no  return;  and — I  would  be  loved  as  an 
equal." 

"Assuredly,  madame." 

"  I  must  be  loved  as  an  equal !"  Fire  suddenly  kindled 
her  dreaming  voice;  a  look,  clear  and  alert,  suddenly 
crossed  her  eyes.  "Jacqueline,"  she  cried,  "I  have  set 
myself  a  new  task.  I  shall  make  him  respect  Max  as 
well  as  love  him;  Max  shall  become  his  equal.  Now, 
suppose  you  set  yourself  a  task  like  that,  how  would  you 
begin?" 

" Oh,  madame!"     Jacqueline  was  all  deprecation. 

"Do  not  fear.     Tell  me!" 

"Madame,  it  is  not  for  me — "  Jacqueline's  triumph 
in  the  moment,  and  her  concealing  of  the  triumph,  were 
things  exquisitely  feminine. 

"Tell  me!" 

"I  may  speak  from  the  heart,  madame?" 

Maxine  bent  her  head  in  gracious  condescension. 

"  Then,  madame,  I  would  make  of  Monsieur  Edouard  a 
book  of  figures.  The  princess  would  learn  the  rules; 
Monsieur  Max  would  shut  the  book,  and  make  up  the 
sum.     It  would  be  quite  simple." 

The  hot  color  scorched  Maxine's  face ;  she  rose  quickly. 
"Jacqueline!     I  had  not  expected  this!" 

"  Madame  desired  me  to  speak  from  the  heart.  The 
heart,  at  times,  is  unruly!" 

"True!  Forgive  me.  But  you  should  not  suggest  a 
thing  that  you  know  to  be  impossible." 

232 


MAX 

"Pardon,  madame!  I  was  thinking  of  the  many  im- 
possibilities performed  in  a  good  cause!" 

"Say  no  more,  Jacqueline!  To-night  was  to-night! 
To-night  is  over!"  She  walked  across  the  room  and 
passed  out  upon  the  balcony,  leaning  over  the  railing  at 
the  spot  where  Blake  had  stood. 

Jacqueline,  swift  and  guileful,  was  instantly  beside 
her. 

"  Madame,  at  its  most  serious,  to-night  was  a  little 
comedy.  Is  it  so  criminal  to  repeat  a  little  comedy— 
once,  or  even  twice — in  a  good  cause?  It  is  not  as  if 
madame  were  not  sure  of  herself!  Besides,  the  comedy 
was  charming!" 

"Yes;  the  comedy  was  charming!"  Maxine  echoed 
the  sentiment,  and  in  her  heart  called  '  charming'  a  poor 
word.  "But  even  if  I  were  weak,  Jacqueline,"  she 
added,  "how  could  I  banish  Max?  Max  could  scarcely 
continue  to  have  important  business." 

"  Perhaps  not,  madame ;  but  Monsieur  Max  might  con- 
tinue to  display  temper!  Do  not  forget  that  he  and 
Monsieur  Edouard  did  not  part  upon  the  friendliest 
terms." 

Maxine  smiled. 

"  But  even  granted  that,  I  could  not  be  here  again — 
alone." 

Jacqueline,  with  airiest  scorn,  tossed  the  words  aside. 

"That,  madame?  Why,  that  arranges  itself!  The 
princess  loves  her  brother !  His  quarrel  is  her  grief.  Is 
not  woman  always  compassionate?" 

The  tone  was  irresistible.  Maxine  laughed.  "Jacque- 
line, you  were  the  Serpent  in  Adam's  Garden!  There  is 
not  a  doubt  of  it !  No  wonder  poor  M.  Cartel  has  taken  so 
big  a  bite  of  the  Apple." 

She  laughed  again,  and  Jacqueline  laughed  too,  in  mis- 
chievous delight. 

233 


MAX 


"Madame!"  she  coaxed.     "Madame!" 

"  No !"  said  Maxine,  with  eyes  fixed  determinately  upon 
the  lights  of  the  city;  while  somewhere  above  her  in  the 
cool,  clear  starlight,  a  hidden  voice— her  own,  and  not 
her  own — whispered  a  subtle  '  Yes !' 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

THE  universe  is  compounded  of  the  miraculous;  but 
love  is  the  miracle  of  miracles.  Again  the  im- 
possible had  been  contrived;  again  Maxine  and  Blake 
were  standing  together  on  the  balcony.  The  Parisian 
night  seemed  as  still  as  a  held  breath,  and  as  palpitating 
with  human  possibilities;  the  domes  of  the  Sacre-Cceur 
loomed  white  against  the  sky,  dumb  witnesses  to  the 
existence  of  the  spirit.  The  scene  was  undoubtedly 
poetic;  yet,  placed  in  the  noisiest  highway  of  London 
or  the  most  desolate  bog-land  of  Blake's  native  country, 
these  two  would  have  been  as  truly  and  amply  cog- 
nizant of  the  real  and  the  ideal;  for  the  cloak  of  love 
was  about  them,  the  vapor  of  love  was  before  their  eyes, 
and  for  the  hour,  although  they  knew  it  not,  they  were 
capable  of  reconstructing  a  whole  world  from  the  ma- 
terial in  their  own  hearts. 

But  they  were  divinely  ignorant;  they  each  tricked 
themselves  with  the  age-old  fallacy  of  a  unique  position, 
each  wandered  onward  in  the  dream-like  fields  of  ro- 
mance, content  to  believe  that  the  other  knew  the  hidden 
way. 

The  scene  bore  a  perfect  similarity  to  the  scene  of  the 
first  meeting — about  them,  the  darkness  and  the  quiet 
— behind  them,  the  little  salon  lit  by  the  familiar  lamp, 
showing  all  the  reassuring  evidences  of  the  boy's  occu- 
pation. For  close  upon  an  hour  they  had  enjoyed  this 
intimacy   of   the   balcony,    at   first    talking   much    and 

235 


MAX 

rapidly  upon  the  ostensible  object  of  their  meeting — 
Max's  quarrel  with  Blake,  later  falling  to  a  happy- 
silence,  as  though  they  deliberately  closed  their  lips,  the 
more  fully  to  drink  in  the  secrets  of  the  night  through 
eyes  and  ears.  Strange  spells  were  in  the  weaving,  and 
no  two  souls  are  fused  to  harmony  without  much  subtle 
questioning  of  spirit,  many  delicate,  tremulous  specu- 
lations compounded  of  wordless  joy  and  wordless  fear. 

Some  issue,  it  was,  in  this  matter  of  fusing  personali- 
ties, that  at  last  caused  Maxine  to  turn  her  head  and  find 
Blake  studying  her. 

The  circumstance  was  trivial — a  mere  crossing  of 
glances,  but  it  brought  the  color  to  her  face  as  swiftly 
as  if  she  had  been  taken  in  some  guilty  act. 

Blake  saw  the  expression,  and  interpreted  it  wrongly. 

"You  are  displeased,  princess?  I  am  a  bad  com- 
panion to-night?"  He  spoke  impulsively,  with  an 
anxiety  in  his  voice  that  spurred  her  to  a  desire  to 
comfort  him. 

"When  people  are  sympathetic,  monsieur,  they  are 
companions,  whether  good  or  bad.     Is  it  not  so?" 

He  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her;  neither  was  aware 
of  the  movement. 

"Do  you  find  me  sympathetic?" 

"Indeed,  yes!"  Her  luminous  glance  rested  on  him 
thoughtfully. 

"  But  you  scarcely  know  me." 

"Monsieur,  I  do  know  you." 

"Through  the  boy,  perhaps — "  He  spoke  with  a 
touch  of  impatience,  but  she  stopped  him  with  upraised 
hand. 

"  You  are  angry  with  Max,  therefore  you  must  be 
silent!     Anger  does  not  make  for  true  judgment." 

"Ah,  that's  unfair!"  He  laughed.  " 'Tis  Max  who 
is  angry  with  me !     You  know  I  came  here  to-night  with 

236 


MAX 

open  arms — to  find  him  flown!  Still,  I  am  willing  to 
keep  them  open,  and  give  the  kiss  of  peace  whenever  he 
relents — to  please  you." 

"Ah,  no,  monsieur!     To  please  him.     To  please  him." 

"  Indeed,  no !  To  please  you — and  no  one  else.  If  I 
followed  my  own  devices,  I'd  wait  till  he  comes  back, 
and  box  his  ears.     He'd  very  well  deserve  it." 

Maxine  laughed;  then,  swift  as  a  breeze  or  a  racing 
cloud,  her  mood  changed. 

"Monsieur,  you  care  for  Max?" 

"What  a  question!  I  love  Max.  He's  a  star  in  my 
darkness — or  was,  until  the  sun  shone." 

He  paused,  fearful  of  where  his  impulses  had  led  him; 
but  Maxine  was  all  sweetness,  all  seriousness. 

"Am  I,  then,  the  sun,  monsieur?" 

In  any  other  woman  the  words  must  have  seemed  a 
lure;  but  here  was  a  fairness,  a  frankness  and  dignity 
that  lifted  the  question  to  another  and  higher  plane. 
Blake,  comprehending,  answered  simply  with  the  truth. 

"Yes,  you  are  the  sun;  and  all  my  life  I  have  been 
a  sun- worshipper." 

She  made  no  comment;  she  accepted  the  words,  wait- 
ing for  the  flow  of  speech  that  she  knew  was  close  at 
hand — the  speech,  probably  irrelevant,  certainly  delight- 
ful, that  he  invariably  poured  forth  at  such  a  moment. 

"Princess,  do  you  know  my  country?" 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  a  little. 

"Ah,  then  you  don't  understand  my  worship!  In 
Ireland,  nature  condemns  us  to  a  long,  black,  wet  winter 
and  a  long,  gray,  wet  spring,  so  that  the  heart  of  a  man 
is  nearly  drowned  in  his  body,  and  he  grows  to  believe 
that  his  country  is  nothing  but  a  neutral-tinted  waste; 
but  one  day,  when  even  hope  is  dying,  a  miracle  comes 
to  pass — the  sun  shines  out!  The  sun  shines  out,  and 
he  suddenly  sees  that  his  waste  land  is  the  color  of 

1G  237 


MAX 

emeralds  and  that  his  dripping  woods  are  gardens, 
tinted  like  no  stones  that  jewellers  ever  handle.  Oh, 
no  wonder  I  am  a  sun- worshipper !" 

Maxine,  glowing  to  his  sudden  enthusiasm,  clasped 
her  hands,  as  when  she  heard  the  music  of  M.  Cartel. 

"  Ah,  and  that  is  your  country?" 

"That  is  my  country,  princess." 

"I  wish — "     She  stopped. 

"That  you  could  see  it?" 

She  nodded. 

"  And  why  not  ?  Why  not — when  this  boy  sees  rea- 
son ?  How  I  would  love  to  show  it  to  you !  You  would 
understand." 

"When  would  you  show  it  to  me?"  She  spoke  very 
low. 

"When?  Oh,  perhaps  in  April — -April,  when  the 
washed  skies  are  a  blue  that  even  Max  could  not  find 
in  his  color-box,  and  the  bare  boughs  tremble  with 
promise.  In  April — or,  better  still,  in  the  autumn.  In 
October,  when  the  lights  are  cool  and  white  and  the  sea 
is  an  opal;  when  you  smell  the  ozone  strong  as  violets, 
and  at  every  turn  of  the  road  a  cart  confronts  you,  heaped 
with  bronze  seaweed  and  stuck  with  a  couple  of  pikes 
that  rise  stark  against  the  sky-line,  to  suggest  the  taking 
of  the  spoils.  Yes,  in  October!  In  October,  it  should 
be!" 

He  was  carried  away,  and  she  loved  him  for  his 
enthusiasm. 

"You  care  for  your  country?"  she  said,  very  softly. 

"  Yes — in  an  odd  way !  When  wonder  or  joy  or  ambi- 
tion comes  to  me,  I  always  have  a  craving  to  walk  those 
roads  and  watch  the  sea  and  whisper  my  secrets  to  the 
salt  earth,  but  I  never  gratify  the  desire;  it  belongs  to 
the  many  incongruities  of  an  incongruous  nature.  But  I 
think  if  great  happiness  came  to  me,  I  should  go  back, 

238 


MAX 

if  only  for  a  day;  or  if — "  He  paused.  " — If  I  were  to 
break  my  heart  over  anything,  I  believe  I'd  creep  back, 
like  a  child  to  its  mother.  We're  odd  creatures — we 
Irish!" 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  Maxine.  "  You  have  the 
soul." 

He  looked  down  into  the  rue  Miiller,  and  a  queer  smile 
touched  his  lips. 

"  A  questionable  blessing  one  is  apt  to  say,  princess — 
in  one's  bad  moments!" 

"But  only  in  one's  bad  moments!"  Her  tone  was 
warm ;  her  words  came  from  her  swiftly,  after  the  manner 
of  Max — the  manner  that  Blake  loved. 

"You  are  quite  right!"  he  said,  "and  I  despise  myself 
instantly  I  have  uttered  such  a  cynicism.  The  capacity 
to  feel  is  worth  all  the  pain  it  brings.  If  one  had  but  a 
single  moment  of  realization,  one  should  die  content. 
That  is  the  essential — to  have  known  the  highest." 

Once  again  Maxine  had  the  sense  of  lifting  a  tangible 
veil,  of  gaining  a  glimpse  of  the  hidden  personality — not 
the  half-sceptical,  pleasant,  friendly  Blake  of  the  boy's 
acquaintance,  but  Blake  the  dreamer,  the  idealist  who 
sought  some  grail  of  infinite  holiness  figured  in  his  own 
imagination,  zealously  guarded  from  the  scoffer  and  the 
worldling.  A  swift  desire  pulsed  in  her  to  share  the 
knowledge  of  this  quest — to  see  the  face  of  the  knight  il- 
lumined for  his  adventure — to  touch  the  buckles  of  his 
armor. 

"Monsieur,"  she  whispered,  "if  you  were  to  die  to- 
night, would  you  die  satisfied?" 

In  the  silence  that  had  fallen  upon  them,  Blake  had 
turned  his  face  to  the  stars,  but  now  again  his  glance 
sought  hers. 

"  No,  princess,"  he  said,  simply. 

No  weapons  are  more  potent  than  brevity  and  sim- 

239 


MAX 

plicity.  His  answer  brought  the  blood  to  her  face  as  no 
long  dissertation  could  have  brought  it;  it  was  so  direct, 
so  personal,  so  compounded  of  subtle  values. 

"  Then  you  have  not  known  the  highest  ?"  It  was  not 
she  who  framed  the  question;  some  power  outside  her- 
self constrained  her  to  its  speaking. 

"I  have  recognized  perfection,"  he  said,  "but  I  have 
not  known  it.  And  sometimes  my  weaker  self — the 
primitive,  barbaric  self — cries  out  against  the  limitation; 
sometimes—" 

"Sometimes—?" 

"Nothing,  prmcess — and  everything!"  With  a  sud- 
den wave  of  self-control  he  brought  himself  back  to  the 
moment  and  its  responsibilities.  "Forgive  me!  And, 
if  you  are  merciful,  dismiss  me!  They  say  we  Irish  talk 
too  much.  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  true  Irishman."  He 
laughed,  but  there  was  a  sound  behind  the  laughter  that 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"Monsieur,  it  has  been  happy  to-night?" 

"  It  has  been  heaven." 

"  We  are  not  wholly  a  trouble  to  you — Max  and  I  ?" 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it. 

"Max  is  my  friend,  princess;  you  are  my  sovereign 
lady." 

The  night  was  close  about  them;  Paris  was  below, 
gilding  the  rose  of  human  love;  the  church  domes  were 
above,  tending  whitely  toward  the  stars.  Maxine  moved 
nearer  to  him,  her  heart  beating  fast,  her  whole  radiant 
being  dispensing  fragrance. 

"Monsieur,  if  I  am  your  lady,  pay  me  homage!" 

The  enchantment  was  delicate  and  perfect;  her  voice 
wove  a  spell,  her  slight,  strong  fingers  trembled  in  his. 
He  had  been  less  than  man  had  he  refused  the  moment. 
Silently  he  bent  his  head,  and  his  lips  touched  her  hand 
in  a  swift,  ardent  kiss. 

240 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MAXINE  was  in  high  exaltation — the  exaltation  that 
;  makes  no  count  of  cost.  Yesterday  mattered  not 
at  all ;  to-morrow  might  never  dawn !  As  the  outer  door 
closed  upon  Blake,  she  turned  back  into  the  lighted  salon 
— the  little  salon  of  Max's  books,  of  Max's  boyish  tastes 
— the  little  salon  loved  beyond  all  rooms  in  Paris ! 

In  a  smiling  dream  she  passed  through  it,  on  into  the 
studio  where  no  light  was,  save  the  light  from  a  shred  of 
crescent  moon  that  had  lately  climbed  into  the  sky.  It 
had  a  curious  effect — this  bare,  white  room  with  its  gaunt 
easel,  upon  which  the  portrait  still  stood,  and  to  super- 
stitious eyes,  it  might  well  have  suggested  a  ghost-cham- 
ber, peopled  by  dead  thoughts,  dead  impressions:  but 
Maxine  was  in  no  morbid  mood,  happiness  ran  too  high 
— too  red  and  warm — to  permit  of  shadows  disputing  its 
high  place. 

Smiling,  smiling,  she  passed  from  the  studio  to  the 
bedroom.  The  room  that  had  witnessed  her  first  weak- 
ness; the  room  that  had  brought  her  strength.  How 
infinitely  wise  had  been  the  conduct  of  that  night !  How 
irrevocably  fate  had  created  doubt  and  dispersed  it  by 
inspiration.  If  she  had  not  twisted  her  hair  about  her 
head — if  the  little  Jacqueline  had  not  entered  at  the 
critical  moment — if,  for  that  matter,  M.  Cartel  and  his 
friend  had  not  talked  late  and  partaken  of  bouillon — 

She  laughed;  she  wandered  round  the  room,  touch- 
ing, appraising  the  little  familiar  trifles  associated  with 

241 


MAX 

that  past  hour;  at  last  she  sat  down  before  her  mirror, 
and  there  Jacqueline  found  her  ten  minutes  later,  when 
curiosity  could  no  longer  be  withheld  and  she  came 
creeping  across  the  landing  for  news  of  the  night's 
doings. 

Maxine  heard  her  enter;  heard  her  search  the  salon 
and  then  the  studio;   finally  called  to  her. 

("Jacqueline!" 

"Madame!" 

The  door  opened,  and  Maxine  looked  round,  the  smile 
still  upon  her  lips. 

"  No  soup  for  me  to-night,  Jacqueline  ?    Not  even  tea  ?" 

Jacqueline  caught  the  happy  lightness  of  the  tone, 
and  silently  nodded  her  blonde  head  as  she  tiptoed  into 
the  room. 

"Ah,  madame  has  had  a  banquet  of  the  mind! 
Madame  has  no  need  of  my  poor  food." 

Maxine  picked  up  a  comb  and  arranged  the  tendrils 
of  hair  that  curled  about  her  temples. 

"Jacqueline,"  she  said,  after  a  silence,  "what  do  you 
consider  the  highest  thing?" 

The  question  might  have  been  astonishing,  but  her 
visitor  did  not  betray  surprise  by  even  the  quiver  of  an 
eyelash. 

"  Love,  madame,"  she  said. 

And  Maxine  did  not  flash  round  upon  her  in  one  of 
her  swift  rages,  did  not  even  draw  her  brows  together 
into  their  frowning  line.  She  merely  gazed  into  the 
mirror,  as  if  weighing  the  statement  judicially. 

"All  people  do  not  hold  that  opinion, v  she  said,  at 
last. 

Jacqueline  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  the  exercise  of 
an  infinite  patience.     "No,  madame?" 

"No.  M.  Blake  talked  to-night  of  'the  highest 
thing,'  and  he  did  not  mean  love." 

242 


MAX 

"No,  madame?"     Jacqueline  was  very  guileless. 

But  guileless  as  her  tone  was — nay,  by  reason  of  its 
guilelessness — it  touched  Maxine  in  some  shadowy  cor- 
ner of  her  woman's  consciousness;  and  spurred  by  a 
subtle,  disquieting  suggest'on,  she  turned  in  her  chair, 
and  fixed  her  serious  gray  eyes  upon  her  visitor. 

"What  are  your  thoughts,  Jacqueline?" 

Jacqueline,  taken  unawares,  deprecated. 

"Oh,  madame — " 

But  Maxine  was  set  to  her  point.  "  Answer  my  ques- 
tion," she  insisted.  "  I  wish  to  know.  I  am,  above  all 
things,  practical." 

It  was  to  Jacqueline's  credit  that  she  did  not  smile, 
that  she  simply  murmured :   "  Who  doubts  it,  madame  ?" 

"Yes;  I  am,  above  all  things,  practical.  In  this 
affair  of  the  woman,  I  know  exactly  where  I  stand." 

The  girl  made  no  comment;  but  even  to  Maxine's 
own  ears,  her  declaration  left  a  little  suggestion  of  over- 
vehemence  vibrating  in  the  air;  and  startled  by  this 
suggestion,  she  did  the  least  wise,  the  most  human 
thing  possible,  she  accentuated  it. 

"If  I  were  different — if  M.  Blake  were  different,  I 
grant  that,  perhaps — "  She  stopped  abruptly.  "Jac- 
queline, what  are  your  thoughts?" 

"Oh,  madame,  I  have  none!" 

And  here  Maxine  made  a  change  of  front,  became  very 
grave,  touched  the  gracious,  encouraging  note  of  the 
being  to  whom  life  is  an  open  book. 

"  You  must  not  say  that,"  she  corrected,  sweetly. 
"  You  always  have  ideas — even  if  they  are  sometimes 
a  little  in  the  air.  Come!  Tell  me.  What  are  your 
thoughts?" 

But  Jacqueline  was  wary,  as  befitted  one  who  made 
no  pretence  of  scholarship,  but  who  knew  the  old  human 
story  by  heart,  and  daily  recited  it  to  one  ardent  listener. 

243 


MAX 

"Oh,  madame,  it  is  not  fitting — " 

"Absurd!     Tell  me." 

Jacqueline,  hard  pressed,  sought  refuge  in  a  truth. 

"My  thoughts  might  displease  madame." 

Maxine  sat  straighter  in  her  chair.  Here  was  another 
matter ! 

"Ah,  so  that  is  it!  Well,  now  I  am  determined. 
Now  I  will  have  the  thoughts  at  any  cost." 

When  Maxine  spoke  like  this,  when  her  lips  closed 
upon  her  words,  when  her  eyes  rested  unflinchingly  upon 
her  listener,  she  was  wont  to  have  her  questions  an- 
swered. Jacqueline  recognized  the  moment,  saw  Maxine 
in  all  her  proud  foolishness,  loved  her  with  that  swift 
intermingling  of  pity  and  worship  that  such  beings  as 
she  inevitably  call  forth,  finally  tossed  her  little  head  in 
her  most  tantalizing  manner  and  laughed. 

"With  madame's  permission,"  she  said,  "I  will  wish 
her  good-night!" 

"The  permission  is  not  granted." 

"  Nevertheless,  madame !"     Her  hand  was  on  the  door. 

"Wait!"  cried  Maxine,  peremptorily.  "I  have  asked 
you  a  question  and  you  must  answer  it." 

Jacqueline  stopped  half-way  through  the  doorway, 
and  looked  back,  her  flower-like  face  alight  with  mis- 
chief. 

"  Pardon,  madame !  '  Must '  is  the  word  for  the  ruler. 
Lucien  says  'must'  to  me;  M.  Blake  says  'must'  to" — 
she  paused,  with  maddening  precision;  she  dropped  a 
little  impertinent  curtsy — "to  M.  Max!" 

She  tossed  the  word  upon  the  air,  as  a  child  might 
blow  thistle-down;  she  laughed  and  was  gone,  leaving 
Maxine  conscious  of  a  strange  new  sensation  that 
whipped  her  to  anger  and  yet,  most  curiously,  left  her 
bereft  of  words. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

NOTHING  less  than  absolute  conviction  can  shake  a 
strong  nature.  A  wave  of  doubt  swept  over 
Maxine  as  her  little  neighbor's  words  died  out  and  the 
door  closed,  leaving  her  to  silence  and  solitude;  but  for  all 
her  folly,  she  was  strong,  and  strength  such  as  hers  is  not 
shaken  by  the  shaft  of  a  Jacqueline,  however  cunningly 
sped. 

She  sat  for  long,  troubled,  perplexed — almost,  it  might 
have  seemed,  fearful  of  herself — but  gradually  the 
strength  asserted  itself,  the  fine,  blind  faith  within  her 
asserted  itself  in  a  wave  of  reaction. 

Some  small  weakness  had  been  hers,  she  admitted — 
some  small  shrinking  from  the  truth  of  things !  She  had 
been  remiss  in  the  application  of  her  test,  allowing  the 
dream  to  oust  the  reality  in  that  fascinating  hour  with 
Blake.     Remiss,  but  no  more! 

At  this  stage  in  her  meditations,  she  returned  to  the 
balcony,  studying  the  sky  anew — drinking  in  confidence 
from  the  glory  of  the  stars,  the  slight  grace  of  the  crescent 
moon. 

She  became  the  boy  again  in  mind  and  heart,  en- 
thusiastic, assured,  thirsting  for  action;  she  looked  down 
upon  Paris  frankly  and  without  defiance — or  so  she 
deemed;  and  the  old,  wild  suggestions  of  'liberty,  equal- 
ity, brotherhood,'  seemed  to  rise,  ghostly,  from  its  stones. 

Enthusiasm  is  ever  a  gracious,  pardonable  thing,  be- 
cause in  its  essentials  are  youth  and  zeal  and  all  high, 

245 


MAX 

white-hot  qualities  whose  roots  strike  not  in  the  base 
earth.  Any  sage,  nay,  any  simpleton,  seeing  Maxine 
upon  the  balcony,  could  have  told  her  what  a  fool  she 
was ;  but  who  would  have  told  it  without  a  pause,  with- 
out a  sigh  for  the  divinity  of  such  folly  ? 

Next  day  she  rose,  refreshed  of  body,  because  refreshed 
of  soul;  and  arrayed  in  the  garments  of  her  strength, 
went  forth  to  prove  her  faith. 

Max  it  was — Max  of  the  quick,  lithe  feet  and  eager 
glance — who  left  the  rue  Muller,  heedless  of  breakfast, 
and  began  his  descent  upon  Paris,  making  straight  for 
the  heart  of  the  citadel  with  the  true  instinct  of  the  raider. 

Up  to  this  moment,  Blake's  rooms  had  been  a  mere 
name,  lying  as  they  did  within  the  forbidden  precincts 
of  the  fashionable  world,  but  to-day  no  corner  of  Paris 
offered  terrors,  for  the  simple  reason  that  Paris  itself  had 
come  to  be  incorporated  in  Blake,  and  that,  being  strong 
enough  to  dare  Blake,  Max  was  strong  enough  to  dare 
the  city. 

Self-analysis  played  no  part  in  his  mental  process  as  he 
swung  down  the  steep,  familiar  streets.  A  singleness  of 
purpose,  high  as  it  was  foolish,  possessed  and  inspired 
him.  He  loved  Blake  with  a  wonderful,  unsexual  love, 
and  he  yearned  to  lay  himself  at  his  feet,  to  offer  him  of 
his  best — gifts  of  the  gods,  given  with  free  hands  from  a 
free  heart. 

Something  of  the  sweet  foolishness  must  have  shown 
upon  his  face,  for  when  he  reached  his  destination, 
Blake's  concierge,  usually  a  taciturn  individual,  offered 
him  a  welcome  as  he  stepped  from  the  brilliant  sunshine 
into  the  dim  cool  hallway,  and  gave  him  the  information 
he  needed  with  a  good  grace. 

So  far,  well!  But  happy  assurance  emanated  from 
him,  and  success  is  compounded  of  such  assurance.  He 
knocked  upon  Blake's  door,  certain  that  Blake  himself 

246 


MAX 

and  not  his  servant  would  answer  to  his  summons;  and 
as  though  the  gods  smiled  at  the  childish  confidence,  his 
certainty  was  rewarded.  The  sound  of  a  familiar  step 
set  his  pulses  racing,  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the  door,  and 
desire  became  accomplished. 

"What!     Max?" 

"Yes,  Max!  Is  he  welcome?"  All  the  hoarded 
strength  of  the  night  was  audible  in  the  words.  Max 
threw  up  his  head,  met  Blake's  eyes,  held  out  his  hand 
— the  boy  in  every  particular. 

"Welcome?  As  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May! 
Come  in!  Come  along  in!"  Blake  had  accepted  the 
masquerade;   all  was  as  before. 

Together  they  passed  into  the  salon,  and  instantly 
Blake  became  host — the  role  of  roles  for  him. 

"  Now,  boy,  don't  tell  me  you  have  breakfasted!  But 
even  if  you  have,  you  must  breakfast  again.  Come,  sit 
down!  Sit  down!  My  fellow  makes  most  excellent 
coffee — good  as  Madame  Gustav's  of  the  rue  Fabert! 
Remember  the  rue  Fabert?" 

So  he  rattled  on,  placing  a  second  chair,  seeking  an 
additional  cup,  and  ever  Max  listened,  happy  with 
an  acute  happiness  that  almost  touched  the  verge  of 
tears. 

But  though  emotion  choked  him  he  played  his  part 
gallantly.  He  was  the  boy  of  old  days  to  the  very  life, 
swaggering  a  little  in  a  youthful  forgivable  conceit,  play- 
ing the  lord  of  creation  to  an  amused,  sympathetic 
audience. 

"  Ned,"  he  cried  at  last,  flinging  his  words  from  him 
with  all  the  old  frank  ease,  "tell  me  to  apologize!" 

Blake  looked  up,  and  the  affection,  the  tolerance  in 
the  look  quivered  through  Max's  senses. 

"Now,  boy!  Now!"  he  warned.  "Be  careful  what 
you're  saying !     It's  only  very  ordinary  friends  talk  about 

247 


MAX 

apologies.  And  I  don't  think  we  have  ever  been  very 
ordinary  friends." 

"No!     No!     But  still— " 

"Well,  say  your  say!" 

The  tone  was  full  of  indulgence,  but,  also,  it  was 
touched  with  subtler  things.  This  unexpected  invasion 
had  pleased  and  flattered  Blake;  it  spoke  an  influence 
used  on  his  behalf  that  he  dared  not  have  claimed — 
dared  not  have  expected. 

Max  walked  to  the  window,  looked  down  an  instant 
into  the  brilliant,  sunlit  street,  came  back  to  Blake's 
side,  all  with  a  swift  impulsiveness. 

"  Ned,  I  am  the  same  friend — the  same  comrade?" 

"Indeed,  yes!" 

"But  you  do  not  think  I  possess  a  soul?" 

Blake,  taken  unawares,  colored  like  any  boy. 

"Oh,  come!" 

"  But  it  is  true.  I  know,  for  I  have  been  told.  And 
you  are  wrong — quite  wrong." 

Blake  was  about  to  laugh,  but  he  looked  at  the  young 
face,  suddenly  grown  grave,  and  his  own  words  came 
back  to  him  guiltily.  '  Max's  lips  were  made  for  laughter 
— his  eyes  are  too  bright  for  tears !' 

"Poor  little  faun!"  he  said,  with  jesting  tenderness. 
"  Have  I  misjudged  you?" 

Max  nodded  seriously.  "  You  have.  She  has  made 
me  realize." 

"Ah!  That  was  like  her!"  It  was  Blake's  turn  to 
walk  to  the  window ;  and  the  boy,  watching  him 
eagerly,  was  unable  to  place  the  constraint  that 
suddenly  tinged  his  voice,  suddenly  veiled  his  man- 
ner. 

"Ned,"  he  was  urged  to  say,  "tell  me!  Has  she 
brought  us  nearer  together — my  sister  Maxine?" 

Blake  hesitated;  for  even  your  Irishman,  brimming  to 

248 


MAX 

confide,  is  reticent  when  he  stands  before  his  holy  of 
holies. 

"Ned,  tell  me!" 

The  tone  was  enticing.  Blake  turned  from  the  win- 
dow, strode  back  across  the  room,  cast  an  affectionate 
arm  about  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"She  is  a  worker  of  miracles — your  sister  Maxine!" 

The  words  were  warm,  the  clasp  was  warm;  Max's  in- 
spiration gushed  up,  a  fountain  of  faith. 

"She  understands  you?  She  shows  you  'the  higher 
things'?" 

"By  God,  she  does!" 

"Then  you  shall  see  her  once  more!"  The  ideal  was 
predominant;  zeal  and  youth,  the  white-hot  gifts,  were 
lavished  at  Blake's  feet.  "Come  to  the  studio  to-night, 
and  I  shall  leave  you  in  her  company  willingly,  gladly, 
with  all  my  heart.     Ned!     Say  you  will  come!" 

And  Blake,  dreaming  his  own  dream,  pressed  the  boy's 
shoulder  and  laughed,  and  answered  with  the  jest  that 
covers  so  many  things. 

"Will  I  come?  Will  a  man  turn  back  from  the  gate 
of  heaven  when  Saint  Peter  uses  his  key?" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

PERFECT  self-deception  can  be  a  rare,  almost  a 
precious  thing,  ranking  with  all  absurd,  delightful 
faiths  from  the  child's  sweet  certainty  of  fairydom  to 
the  enthusiast's  belief  in  the  potency  of  his  own  star. 

Maxine,  in  her  little  white  bedroom,  arraying  herself 
for  Blake,  was  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  illusion,  translated 
to  a  sphere  above  the  common  earth  by  this  magic 
blindness.  Never  again  while  life  lasted  was  she  to 
stand  as  she  stood  to-night,  eyes  searching  her  mirror 
with  perfect  steadfast  sincerity,  lips  parted  in  breathless 
joy  of  confidence.  Never  again!  But  for  the  moment 
the  illusion  was  complete.  She  saw  the  triumphing  soul 
of  Max  glimmer  through  her  own  fair  body,  saw  the  boy's 
faith  carried  like  a  banner  in  her  woman's  hands. 

Her  dressing  was  a  tremulous  affair,  tinged  with  a  fine 
excitement.  Again  she  clothed  herself  in  the  soft  white 
dress,  the  long  gray  cloak  of  former  meetings;  but,  ban- 
ishing the  willing  Jacqueline,  she  coiled  her  hair  with  her 
own  hands  and  last,  most  significant  touch,  pinned  a 
white  rose  at  her  breast. 

It  was  the  night  of  nights !  No  need  to  assure  herself 
of  the  fact ;  the  knowledge  sang  in  her  blood,  burned  in 
her  cheeks.  The  night  of  nights!  When  Maxine  would 
receive  the  soul  of  Blake  and  place  it,  mystic  and  sacra- 
mental, in  the  keeping  of  Max! 

The  folly  of  the  affair,  the  naivety  of  it,  made  for  tears 
as  well  as  smiles;   and  Maxine,  glowing  to  the  eternal, 

250 


MAX 

aspiring  flame,  looked  her  last  into  the  little  mirror  that 
had  so  carefully  preserved  its  secrets,  and  passed  across 
the  hall  to  the  salon,  where  the  night  stretched  beckon- 
ing, velvet  fingers  through  the  open  window. 

Young,  luxurious  summer  palpitated  through  the  dusk, 
fanning  the  ardor  in  her  heart.  She  ran  forward,  drawn 
by  its  allurement;  then,  all  at  once,  she  stopped,  her 
hand  flying  to  her  heart,  her  breath  suspended  in  a  little 
cry  of  surprise.  Blake  had  slipped  unheard  into  the 
appartement,  and  was  awaiting  her  on  the  balcony. 

At  her  cry,  he  turned — wheeled  round  toward  her — 
and  his  eyes  scanned  her  surprised,  betraying  face. 

"You  are  glad!"  he  cried,  in  sudden  self-expression. 
"  You  are  glad  to  see  me!"  The  words  were  hot  as  they 
were  abrupt,  they  seared  her  with  their  swiftness  and 
their  conviction,  they  were  as  a  raiding  army  before 
which  all  ramparts  fell.  Mentally,  morally,  she  felt  her- 
self sway  until  preconceived  ideas  drifted  to  and  fro, 
weeds  upon  a  tide. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  scarcely  aware  of  her  own  voice. 
"I  am  glad." 

Where  now  were  the  subtle  ways,  the  divers  interlacing 
paths  wherein  Maxine  was  to  pursue  her  chase,  delivering 
her  quarry  into  the  hands  of  Max?  Where  were  the 
barbed  and  potent  shafts  whereby  that  capture  was  to  be 
achieved  ?  All  had  vanished  into  the  night ;  she  stood 
before  her  intended  victim  unarmed,  ungirt,  and— 
miracle  of  miracles — undismayed ! 

She  and  Blake  confronted  each  other.  Their  lips 
were  dumb,  but  their  looks  embraced.  Fate — life — 
was  in  the  air,  in  the  myriad  voices  of  the  night,  the 
myriad  pulses  of  their  bodies,  the  myriad  thoughts  that 
wheeled  and  flashed  within  their  brains. 

This  knowledge  rushed  in  upon  her  swimming  senses, 
upon  eyes  suddenly  opened,  ears  suddenly  made  free 

251 


MAX 

of  the  music  of  the  spheres;  and  her  hand — the  hand 
that  had  first  girded  on  her  boy's  attire — went  out  to 
Blake  like  that  of  any  girl. 

It  was  nature's  signal,  stronger  in  its  frailty  than 
any  attained  art  of  woman;  and  he  answered  to  it  as 
man  has  ever  answered — ever  will  answer. 

"Oh,  my  love!"  he  cried.  "My  love!"  And  his 
arms  went  round  her. 

It  is  sacrilege  to  attempt  analysis  of  birth  or  love  or 
death.  Death  and  birth,  the  mysteries!  Love,  the 
revelation!  Man,  as  he  has  existed  through  all  time, 
had  being  in  Blake's  embrace;  woman,  as  she  has  been 
from  the  first,  lived  in  Maxine's  leap  of  the  heart,  her 
leap  of  the  spirit  as  the  ecstasy  of  his  touch  thrilled  her. 
Here  was  no  coldness ;  here  was  no  sensuality.  Divinity 
manifested  itself,  no  longer  above,  but  within  them. 
The  lights  in  the  sky  were  divine,  but  so  were  the  lights 
of  the  town.  Divinity  fired  their  souls,  merging  each 
in  each;  but  as  truly  it  fired  their  clasping  hands,  their 
lips  trembling  to  kiss. 

Maxine — removed  by  fabulous  distances  from  Max, 
from  the  studio,  from  all  accepted  things — breathed  her 
wonderment  in  an  unconscious  appeal. 

"  Speak  to  me!" 

And  Blake,  awed  and  enraptured,  whispered  his  answer. 

"There  is  nothing  to  say  that  you  do  not  know.  I 
worship  you.  I  bent  my  knee  and  kissed  the  hem  of 
your  garment  the  first  moment  it  brushed  my  path. 
There  is  nothing  to  say  that  you  do  not  know.  I  have 
waited  all  my  life  for  this." 

"All  your  life?" 

"All  my  life.  But  love  is  not  reckoned  by  time. 
One  dreams — and  one  wakes." 

"  You  dreamed — "  She  closed  her  eyes,  her  ears 
drank  in  the  cadences  of  his  voice. 

252 


MAX 

"Always!  As  a  child,  I  dreamed  over  my  play;  as 
a  boy,  I  dreamed  over  my  books — and  as  a  man,  over 
my  loves.  I  was  never  in  love  with  woman — always  in 
love  with  love." 

"And  now?" 

"  I  am  awake — I  have  come  into  my  inheritance !  My 
love!  My  love!"  It  was  an  instant  of  intense  sensa- 
tion. She  could  feel  the  beating  of  his  heart;  his  fingers 
and  hers  were  interlaced.  "Maxine!  Open  your  eyes! 
Look  at  me!" 

Obediently — any  woman  to  any  man — she  opened 
them  and  met  his  gaze. 

"You  know?     You  understand?" 

She  stood  rigid,  her  eyes  wide,  her  nostrils  dilated — 
a  creature  swaying  upon  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  con- 
templating a  plunge  into  space. 

"Maxine!"  he  said  again.     "Maxine!" 

It  was  the  primitive  human  cry.  She  heard  and 
acknowledged  it  in  every  fibre  of  her  being;  she  drew 
a  swift,  sharp  breath,  then,  with  a  free  gesture,  cast 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Ned!  Ned!  Say  again  that  you  love  me!  Say  it 
a  thousand,  say  it  a  million  times — and  for  every  time 
you  say  it,  I  will  tell  you  twice  that  I  love  you." 

Passion,  intoxication  sped  the  words,  and  Blake's 
mouth,  closing  upon  hers,  broke  the  ecstasy  of  speech. 

"I  love  you!  I  worship  you!  You  are  my  life. 
You  are  myself." 

Reality  vibrated  through  his  speech;  and  Maxine, 
hearing,  lost  herself.  With  arms  still  clasped  about 
him,  she  leaned  her  body  backward,  gazing  into  his 
face. 

"  Again !     Say  it  again !" 

"  You  are  my  life !     We  are  one !     Maxine !     Maxine !" 

His  glance  burned  her,   his  arms  were  close  about 

17  253 


MAX 

her.  With  a  sudden  ardent  movement,  she  caught  his 
face  between  her  hands,  drew  it  down,  and  kissed  it  full 
upon  the  mouth,  not  once  but  many  times,  fiercely, 
closely;  then,  with  a  little  cry,  inarticulate  as  the  cry 
of  an  animal,  she  freed  herself  and  fled  through  the 
salon,  through  the  hall  and  out  upon  the  landing,  the 
door  of  the  appartement  closing  behind  her. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

THE  door  of  her  appartement  closed  behind  Maxine, 
and  she  turned,  swift  as  a  coursed  hare,  to  the 
door  of  M.  Cartel. 

No  hesitation  touched  her;  she  needed  sanctuary; 
sanctuary  she  must  have.  She  opened  her  neighbor's 
door,  careless  of  what  might  lie  behind,  bringing  with 
her  into  the  quiet  rooms  a  breath  of  fierce  disorder. 

The  living-room,  with  its  piano  and  its  homely  chairs 
and  table,  was  lighted  by  a  common  lamp;  and  the 
little  Jacqueline,  the  only  occupant,  sat  in  the  radius 
of  the  light,  peacefully  sewing  at  a  blue  muslin  gown 
that  was  to  adorn  a  Sunday  excursion  into  the  country. 

At  the  sound  of  the  stormy  entry  she  merely  raised 
her  head;  but  at  sight  of  her  visitor,  she  was  on  her 
feet  in  an  instant,  the  heap  of  muslin  flowing  in  a  blue 
cascade  from  her  lap  to  the  floor. 

"Madame!" 

"Hide  me!"  cried  Maxine. 

"Madame!" 

"Lock  the  outer  door!  And  if  M.  Blake  should 
knock—" 

Jacqueline  made  no  further  comment.  When  a  visi- 
tor's face  is  blanched  and  her  limbs  tremble  as  did 
those  of  Maxine,  the  Jacquelines  of  this  world  neither 
question  nor  hesitate.  She  went  across  the  room  with- 
out a  word,  and  the  key  clicked  in  the  lock. 

Maxine  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  when 

255 


MAX 

Jacqueline  returned;  her  body  was  still  quivering,  her 
nostrils  fluttering,  her  fingers  twisting  and  intertwisting 
in  an  excess  of  emotion ;  and  at  sight  of  the  familiar  little 
figure,  words  broke  from  her  with  the  fierceness  of  a  freed 
torrent. 

"Jacqueline!  You  see  before  you  a  mad  woman!  A 
mad  woman — and  one  filled  with  the  fear  of  her  madness ! 
They  say  the  insane  are  mercifully  oblivious.  It  is  un- 
true!" She  almost  cried  the  last  words  and,  turning, 
began  a  swift  pacing  of  the  room. 

"  Madame!"  Jacqueline  caught  her  breath  at  her  own 
daring.  "  Madame,  you  know  at  last,  then,  that  he  loves 
you?" 

Maxine  stopped  and  her  burning  eyes  fixed  themselves 
upon  the  girl.  This  speech  of  Jacqueline's  was  a  breach 
of  all  their  former  relations,  but  her  brain  had  no  room 
for  pride.     She  was  grappling  with  vital  facts. 

"  I  know  at  last  that  he  loves  me  ?"  she  repeated,  con- 
fusedly. 

"That  he  loves  you,  madame;  that,  unknowingly,  he 
has  always  loved  you.  How  else  could  he  have  treated 
Monsieur  Max  so  sacredly — almost  as  he  might  have 
treated  his  own  child  ?" 

But  Maxine  was  not  dealing  in  psychological  subtleties. 

"Love!"  she  cried  out.  "Love!  All  the  world  is  in 
a  conspiracy  over  this  love!" 

"Because  love  is  the  only  real  thing,  madame." 

"Perhaps!  But  not  the  love  of  which  you  speak. 
The  love  of  the  soul,  but  not  the  love  of  the  body!" 

"  Madame,  can  one  truly  give  the  soul  and  refuse  the 
body  ?     Is  not  the  instinct  of  love  to  give  all  ?" 

The  little  Jacqueline  spoke  her  truth  with  a  frail  con- 
fidence very  touching  to  behold.  She  was  a  child  of  the 
people,  her  sole  weapons  against  the  world  were  a  certain 
blonde  beauty,  a  certain  engaging  youthfulness;  but  she 

256 


MAX 

looked  Maxine  steadfastly  in  the  eyes,  meeting  the  anger, 
the  scorn,  the  fear  compassed  in  her  glance. 

"  I  know  the  world,  madame;  it  is  not  a  pretty  place. 
When  I  was  sixteen  years  old,  I  left  my  parents  because 
it  called  to  me — and  in  the  distance  its  voice  was  pleas- 
ant. I  left  my  home;  I  had  lovers."  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  an  extreme  philosophy.  "  I  tried  every- 
thing— except  love.  Then — I  met  Lucien!"  Her  phi- 
losophy merged  curiously  to  innocence,  almost  to  the 
soft  innocence  of  a  child.  "  I  ran  away  again,  madame; 
I  fled  to  Lize."  She  paused.  "Poor  Lize!  She  has  a 
good  heart!  That  was  the  night  at  the  Bal  Tabarin. 
That  night  Lucien  opened  his  arms,  and  I  flung  myself 
into  them." 

She  spoke  with  perfect  artlessness,  ignorant  of  a  world 
other  than  her  own,  innocent  of  a  moral  code  other  than 
that  which  she  followed. 

Once  again,  as  on  the  day  she  had  first  visited  the 
appartement  and  made  acquaintance  with  the  old  painter 
and  his  wife,  dread  of  some  mysterious  force  filled  Maxine. 
What  marvellous  power  was  this  that  could  smile  secure 
at  poverty  and  oblivion — that  could  cast  a  halo  of  true 
emotion  over  a  Bal  Tabarin  ? 

"It  is  not  true!"  she  cried  out,  in  answer  to  her- 
self. 

"  Not  true,  madame  ?  Why  did  I  choose  Lucien,  who 
is  nothing  to  look  upon — who  is  an  artist  and  penni- 
less?" 

She  ran  across  to  Maxine;  she  caught  her  by  the 
shoulders. 

"Oh,  madame!  How  beautiful  you  are — and  how 
blind  !  You  bandage  your  eyes,  and  you  tighten 
the  knot.  Oh,  my  God,  if  I  could  but  open  it  for 
you!" 

"  And  reduce  me  to  kisses  and  folly  and  tears?" 

257 


MAX 

"One  may  drift  into  heaven  on  a  kiss!"  Jacque- 
line's voice  was  like  some  precious  metal,  molten  and 
warm. 

" Or  one  may  slip  into  hell!  Do  you  think  I  have  not 
known  what  it  is  to  kiss?  It  was  from  a  kiss  I  fled 
to-night." 

Her  tone  was  fervent  as  it  was  reckless,  and  Jacque- 
line stood  aghast.  The  entire  denial  of  love  was  com- 
prehensible to  her,  if  inexplicable;  but  her  mind  refused 
this  problem  of  realization  and  rejection. 

"Madame — "  she  began,  quickly,  but  she  paused  on 
the  word,  listening;  the  sound  of  Max's  door  opening  and 
closing  came  distinctly  to  the  ear,  followed  by  a  footstep 
descending  the  stairs.  "Monsieur  Edouard!"  she  whis- 
pered, finger  on  lip. 

Maxine,  also,  had  heard,  and  a  look  of  relief  broke  the 
tension  of  her  expression. 

"  He  is  gone.     That  is  well!" 

Something  in  her  look,  in  her  voice  startled  Jacque- 
line anew. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  like  that,  madame  ?  Why  do  you 
look  so  cold?" 

"I  am  sane  again,  Jacqueline." 

"  And  Monsieur  Edouard  ?  Is  he  sane,  I  wonder  ?  Is 
he  cold  ?     Oh,  madame,  he  loves  you!" 

"  I  am  going  to  prove  his  love." 

"But,  madame!  Oh,  madame,  love  isn't  a  matter  of 
proving ;  it  is  an  affair  of  giving — giving — giving  with  all 
the  heart." 

"  Trust  me,  Jacqueline!     I  understand.     Good-night!" 

Jacqueline  framed  no  word,  but  her  eyes  spoke  many 
things. 

"Say  good-night,  Jacqueline!  Forget  that  you  have 
entertained  a  mad  woman!" 

"Good-night,  madame!" 

258 


MAX 

But  the  little  Jacqueline,  left  alone,  shook  her  head 
many  times,  leaving  her  heap  of  blue  muslin  neglected 
upon  the  floor. 

"  Poor  child !"  she  said  softly  to  herself.  "  Poor  child ! 
Poor  child!" 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

IT  was  midway  between  the  hours  of  nine  and  ten  on 
the  morning  following.  Max  was  standing  in  the 
studio;  the  e?sel,  still  bearing  the  portrait,  had  been 
pushed  into  a  corner,  its  face  to  the  wall;  everywhere 
the  warm  sun  fell  upon  a  rigid  severity  of  aspect,  as 
though  the  room  had  instinctively  been  bared  for  the 
enacting  of  some  scene. 

Max  himself,  in  a  subtle  manner,  struck  the  same  note. 
The  old  painting  blouse  he  usually  wore  had  been  dis- 
carded for  the  blue  serge  suit,  severely  masculine  in 
aspect;  his  hair  had  been  reduced  to  an  usual  order,  his 
whole  appearance  was  rigid,  active,  braced  for  the 
coming  moment. 

And  this  moment  arrived  sooner  even  than  anticipa- 
tion had  suggested.  The  clocks  of  Paris  had  barely 
clashed  the  half  hour,  when  his  strained  ears  caught  a 
step  upon  the  landing,  a  sharp  knock  upon  the  door, 
and  before  his  brain  could  leap  to  fear  or  joy,  Blake  was 
in  the  appartement— in  the  room. 

There  was  no  mistaking  Blake's  attitude  as  he  swung 
into  the  boy's  presence;  it  was  patent  in  every  move- 
ment, every  glance,  even  had  his  white,  strained  face  not 
testified  to  it.  Coming  into  the  studio,  he  affected  noth- 
ing— neither  apology,  greeting,  nor  explanation;  with- 
out preamble  he  came  straight  to  the  matter  that  pos- 
sessed his  mind. 

'You  know  of  this?"     He  held  out  a  square  white 

260 


MAX 

envelope,  bearing  bold  feminine  handwriting — writing 
over  which  time  and  thought  and  labor  had  been  ex- 
pended in  this  same  room  ten  hours  earlier.  "  You  know 
this?" 

"Yes."  Max's  tongue  clicked  dryly  against  the  roof 
of  his  mouth,  but  his  eyes  bore  the  fire  of  Blake's 
scrutiny. 

"You  know  the  contents?" 

"Yes." 
'  Yes !'     And   you    can    stand    there    like    a   graven 
image.     Do  you  realize  it,  at  all?     Do  you  grasp  it?" 

"  I— think  I  understand." 

"You  think  you  understand?"  Blake  laughed  in 
a  manner  that  was  not  agreeable.  "  Understand,  for- 
sooth! You,  who  have  never  seen  anything  human  or 
divine  that  you  rate  above  your  own  little  finger! 
Understand!"  He  laughed  again,  then  suddenly  his  atti- 
tude changed.  "But  I  haven't  come  here  to  waste 
words!     You  know  that  your  sister  has  left  Paris?" 

Max  nodded,  finding  no  words. 

"She  tells  me  here  that  she  has  gone — gone  out  of 
my  life — that  I  am  to  forget  her." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  that  has  only  one  meaning,  when  it  comes  from 
the  one  woman.     I  must  know  where  she  is." 

Max  set  his  lips  and  studiously  averted  his  face. 

"Come!     Tell  me  where  she  is!     Time  counts." 

"I  do  not  know." 

"  I  expected  that!  You're  lying,  of  course;  but  when 
you're  up  against  a  man  in  my  frame  of  mind,  lies  are 
poor  ammunition.  I  don't  ask  you  why  she  has  gone 
— that's  between  her  and  me,  that's  my  affair.  But  I 
must  know  where  she  is." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 
You   cannot  refuse   to   tell   me!     Look   here,   boy, 

261 


<« 


MAX 

you've  always  seen  my  soft  side,  you  don't  believe  there 
is  a  hard  one.     But  we  Irish  can  surprise  you." 

Max  had  no  physical  fear,  but  he  backed  involuntarily 
before  the  menace  in  Blake's  eyes. 

"  I'm  not  lying  to  you,  Ned.  I  cannot  tell  you,  be- 
cause I  do  not  know.  My  sister  Maxine  has  ceased  to 
exist — for  me,  as  much  as  for  you." 

"Stop!"  Blake  stepped  close  to  him  and  for  an  in- 
stant his  hand  was  raised,  but  it  fell  at  once  to  his  side, 
and  he  laughed  once  more,  harshly  and  self-consciously. 
"Don't  play  with  me,  boy!     I've  had  a  hard  knock." 

"I'm  not  playing.  It's  true!  It's  true!"  Dark 
eyes,  with  dark  lines  beneath  them,  stared  at  Blake, 
carrying  conviction.  "It's  true!  It's  true!  I  do  not 
know." 

"God,  boy!"     Blake  faltered  in  his  vehemence. 

"It's  true!"  said  Max  again. 

"  True  that  she's  gone — vanished  ?  That  I  can't  find 
her?     That  you  can't  find  her?     It  isn't!" 

"It  is." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Blake's  face.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  rigid  and  speechless,  drinking  in  the  fact;  then 
his  feelings  broke  bounds. 

"  It's  true  ?  And  you  stand  there,  gaping!  God,  boy, 
rouse  yourself!"  He  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and 
shook  him.  "  Don't  you  know  what  this  is  ?  Have  you 
never  seen  a  man  dealt  a  mortal  blow?" 

"Love  is  not  everything!"  cried  Max. 

"  Not  everything  ?  Oh,  you  poor,  damned  little  fool, 
how  bitterly  you'll  retract  that  prating!  Not  every- 
thing? Isn't  water  everything  in  a  parched  desert? 
Isn't  the  sun  everything  to  a  frozen  world?"  He 
stopped,  suddenly  loosing  the  boy,  casting  him  from 
him,  a  thing  of  no  significance. 

Max,  faint  and  pale,  caught  at  his  arm. 

262 


MAX 


M 


Ned!     Ned!     I  am  here.     I  am  your  friend.     I  love 
you." 

Blake,  in  all  his  whirl  of  passion,  paused. 

"You!"  he  said,  and  no  long  eloquence  could  have 
accentuated  the  blank  amazement,  the  searing  irony  of 
the  word. 

But  Max  closed  all  his  senses. 

"Ned!  Ned!  Look  at  the  truth  of  life!  There  is 
in  me  everything  but  one  thing." 

'Then,  by  God,  that  one  thing  is  everything!  It's 
the  woman  and  the  man  that  rule  this  world.  The 
woman  and  the  man — the  soul  and  the  body !  All  other 
things  are  dust  and  chaff." 

'  You  feel  that  now.  But  time — time  balances.  We 
will  be  happy  yet.     We  will  relive  the  old  days — " 

Blake  turned,  wrenching  away  his  arm.  "The  old 
days?  Do  you  imagine  Paris  can  hold  me  now  she  is 
gone?" 

"Ned!" 

"  Do  you  imagine  I  can  live  in  this  town — climb  these 
steps — stand  on  that  balcony,  that  breathes  of  her?" 

Max  was  leaning  back  against  the  window-frame.  His 
brain  seemed  empty  of  blood,  his  heart  seemed  to  pulse 
in  a  strange,  unfamiliar  fashion,  while  somewhere  within 
his  consciousness  a  tiny  voice  commanded  him  urgently 
to  preserve  his  strength — not  to  betray  himself. 

'  You  will  go  away?"  he  heard  himself  say.  "Where 
will  you  go  ?     To  Ireland  ?" 

"To  Ireland— or  hell!"     Blake  walked  to  the  door. 

"Then  you  are  leaving  me?" 

"  You  shall  know  where  I  am." 

"And  if  I  should  need  you?" 

Blake  made  no  answer;  he  did  not  even  look  back. 

"If — if  she  should  need  you?" 

He  turned. 

263 


MAX 

"  I  will  come  to  her  at  any  moment — from  anywhere." 
The  door  closed.  He  was  gone,  and  Max  stood  leaning 
against  the  window.  His  blood  still  circulated  oddly, 
and  now  the  inner  voice  with  its  reiterated  commands 
was  rising,  rising  until  it  became  the  thunder  of  a  sea 
that  filled  his  ears,  annihilating  all  other  sounds.  A 
swift,  sharp  terror  smote  him;  he  sought  desperately  to 
maintain  his  consciousness,  but,  breaking  across  the 
effort  an  icy  breath  crept  up  from  nowhere,  fanning  his 
cheek,  suspending  all  struggle,  and  a  palpable  darkness, 
like  the  darkness  of  brooding  wings,  closed  in  upon  him, 
bringing  oblivion. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

WHO  shall  depict  the  soul  of  woman  ?  As  well  essay- 
to  number  the  silk  hairs  on  the  moth's  wing,  or 
paint  truly  the  hues  in  the  blown  bubble!  The  soul  of 
woman  dwells  apart,  subject  to  no  laws,  trammelled  by 
no  precedent;  mysterious  in  its  essence,  strong  in  its  very 
frailty,  it  passes  through  many  phases  to  its  ultimate  end, 
working  as  all  great  agents  work,  silently  and  in  the  dark. 

With  the  passing  of  Blake,  the  spiritual  Maxine  en- 
tered upon  a  new  phase — was  arbitrarily  forced  into  a 
new  phase  of  existence.  The  passing  of  Blake  was  sud- 
den, tremendous,  devastating  in  its  effect,  leaving  as 
consequences  a  moral  blackness,  a  moral  chaos. 

It  was  a  new  Maxine  who  wakened  to  the  realization 
of  facts;  rather,  it  was  a  new  Max,  for  it  was  the  mascu- 
line, not  the  feminine  ego  that  turned  a  set  face  to  cir- 
cumstance in  the  moment  of  desertion — that  sedulously 
wrapped  itself  in  the  garment  of  pride  spun  and  fashioned 
in  happier  hours. 

'Now  is  the  test!  Now  is  the  time!'  Max  insisted, 
drowning  by  insistence  the  poignant  cry  of  the  heart; 
and  to  this  watchword  he  marched  against  fate. 

With  set  purpose  he  faced  life  and  its  vexed  questions 
in  that  bitter,  precipitate  moment.  Again  it  was  the 
beginning  of  things;  but  it  was  the  rue  Mtiller  and  not 
the  Gare  du  Nord  that  was  the  scene  of  action ;  the  May 
sun  fell  burning  on  the  Parisian  pavements,  while  the 
blood  of  the  adventurer  ran  slow  and  cold.     The  illu- 

265 


MAX 

sions  bred  of  the  winter  dawn  had  been  dispersed  by  the 
light  of  day;  life  was  no  glad  enterprise — no  climbing 
of  golden  heights,  but  the  barren  crossing  of  a  trackless 
region  where  no  hand  proffered  guidance  and  false  signs 
misled  the  weary  eyes.  One  weapon  alone  was  necessary 
in  the  pursuance  of  the  gray  journey — a  sure  command — 
a  sure  possession  of  one's  self! 

This  thought  alone  made  harmony  with  the  music  of 
the  past,  and  toward  its  thin  sound  his  ears  were  strained. 
Comradeship  had  come  and  gone — love  had  come  and 
gone — the  fundamental  idea  that  had  lured  him  to  Paris 
alone  remained,  stark,  colorless,  but  recognizable ! 

One  must  possess  one's  self!  And  to  achieve  this  su- 
preme good,  one  must  close  the  senses  and  seal  up  the 
heart,  and  be  as  a  creature  already  dead! 

To  this  profound  end,  Max  locked  himself  in  his  studio 
and  sat  alone  while  the  May  morning  waxed;  to  this 
profound  end,  moving  as  in  a  dream,  he  at  last  rose  at 
midday  and  left  the  appartement  in  quest  of  his  customary 
meal.  What  that  meal  was  to  consist  of — whether  stones 
or  bread — did  not  touch  his  brain,  for  his  mind  was  solely 
exercised  with  wonder  at  the  fact  that  his  will  could  com- 
mand the  search  for  food — could  compel  his  dry  lips  to 
the  savorless  duty  of  eating. 

As  he  left  the  little  cafe,  paying  his  score,  he  half  ex- 
pected to  see  his  wonder  reflected  on  the  good  face  of 
madame  the  proprietress,  and  was  curiously  shocked  to 
receive  the  usual  cheerful  smile,  the  usual  cheerful  'good- 
day!'  that  took  no  heed  of  his  heavy  plight. 

It  was  that  cheerful  superficiality  of  Paris  that  can  so 
delightfully  mirror  one's  mood  when  the  heart  is  light — 
that  can  ring  so  sadly  hollow  when  the  soul  is  sick.  It 
cut  Max  with  a  bitter  sharpness;  and,  like  a  man  fleeing 
from  his  own  shadow,  he  fled  the  shop. 

Outside  in  the  dazzling  glitter  of  the  streets,  the  sun 

266 


MAX 

blinded  him,  accentuating  the  scorching  pain  of  unshed 
tears;  the  very  pavements  seemed  to  rise  up  and  sear 
him  with  their  memories.  Here  in  this  very  street  Blake 
and  he  had  strolled  and  smoked  on  many  a  night,  wend- 
ing homeward  from  the  play  or  the  opera,  laughing,  jest- 
ing, arguing  as  they  paced  arm-in-arm  up  and  down 
before  the  sleeping  shops.  The  thought  stung  him  with 
an  amazing  sharpness,  and  he  fled  from  it,  as  he  had  fled 
from  the  cafe  and  its  smiling  proprietress. 

His  descent  upon  Paris  was  a  descent  upon  a  region  of 
beauty.  The  sense  of  summer  lay  like  a  bloom  upon  the 
flowers  for  sale  at  the  street  corners,  and  shimmered — a 
ribbon  of  silver  sunlight — across  the  pale-blue  sky.  The 
trees  in  the  grand  boulevards  shone  in  their  green  trap- 
pings; rainbow  colors  glinted  in  the  shop  windows; 
everywhere,  save  in  the  heart  of  Max,  was  fairness  and 
youth  and  joy. 

Supremely  conscious  of  himself,  adrift  and  wretched, 
he  passed  through  the  crowds  of  people — passed  from 
sun  to  shade,  from  shade  to  sun — with  a  hopeless  eager 
haste  thatpossessedno  object  save  to  outstrip  his  thoughts. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  to  the  desponding,  water  has 
a  magnetic  call;  without  knowledge,  almost  without 
volition,  his  footsteps  turned  toward  the  river — that 
river  which  has  so  closely  girdled  Paris  through  all  her 
varied  life.  Smooth  and  pale,  it  slipped  secretly  past 
its  qua)  s  as  Max  approached,  indifferent  to  the  tragedies 
it  concealed,  as  it  was  indifferent  to  the  ardent  life  that 
ebbed  and  flowed  across  its  many  bridges.  On  its  breast, 
the  small,  dark  craft  of  the  city  nestled  lazily;  to  right 
and  left  along  its  banks,  the  sun  struck  glints  of  gold 
and  bronze  from  spire  and  monument;  while,  close 
against  its  sides,  on  the  very  parapet  of  its  quays,  there 
was  in  progress  that  quaint  book  traffic  that  strikes  so 
intimate  a  note  in  the  life  of  the  quarter. 

267 


MAX 

It  is  a  charming  thought  that  in  the  heart  of  Paris — 
Paris,  the  pleasure  city— there  is  time  and  space  for  the 
vender  of  old  books  to  set  out  his  wares,  to  lay  them 
open  to  the  kindly  sky,  to  tempt  the  studious  and  idle 
alike  to  pause  and  dally  and  lose  themselves  in  that 
most  fascinating  of  all  pursuits — the  search  for  the 
treasure  that  is  never  found.  Max  paused  beside  this 
row  of  tattered  bookstalls,  and  quivered  to  the  stab  of 
a  new  pain.  Scores  of  happy  mornings  he  had  wan- 
dered with  Blake  in  this  vicarious  garden  of  delight, 
flitting  from  the  books  to  the  curio  shops  across  the 
roadway,  from  the  curios  back  again  to  the  books,  while 
Blake  talked  with  his  easy  friendliness  to  the  odd  beings 
who  bartered  in  this  open  market. 

It  was  pain  inexpressible — it  was  loneliness  made  pal- 
pable— to  stand  by  the  tressel  stalls  and  allow  his  eyes 
to  rest  upon  the  familiar  merchandise;  and  for  the 
third  time  in  that  black  morning  he  fled  from  his  own 
shadow  —  fled  onward  into  the  darker,  older  Paris — 
the  Paris  of  tradition,  where  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame  frowns,  silently  scornful  of  those  who  disturb  its 
peace. 

As  he  approached  the  great  building,  its  sombre  im- 
pressiveness  fell  upon  his  troubled  spirit  mercifully  as 
its  shadow  fell  across  the  blinding  sunlight.  He  paused 
in  the  wide  space  that  fronts  the  heavy  doors,  and 
caught  his  breath  as  the  fugitive  of  old  might  have 
caught  breath  at  sight  of  sanctuary. 

Here  was  a  place  of  shade  and  magnitude — a  place 
untouched  by  memory ! 

Blindly  he  moved  toward  the  door,  entered  the  church, 
walked  up  the  aisle.  Few  sight-seers  disturbed  the  sense 
of  peace,  for  outside  it  was  high  noon  and  Paris  was 
engrossed  in  the  serious  business  of  dejeuner;  no  service 
was  in  progress;  all  was  still,  all  dim  save  where  a  taper 

268 


MAX 

of  a  lamp  glowed  before  a  shrine  or  the  sun  struck  sharp 
through  the  splendor  of  stained  glass. 

There  are  few  churches — to  some  minds  there  is  no 
other  church — where  the  idea  of  the  profound  broods 
as  it  does  in  Notre  Dame.  The  sense  of  dignity,  the 
curious  ancient  scent  compounded  by  time,  the  mystic 
colors  of  the  great  windows  breathe  of  the  infinite. 

Max,  walking  up  the  aisle,  looked  at  the  dark  walls; 
Max — modern,  critical — looked  up  at  the  wondrous  rose 
window,  and  felt  the  overshadowing  power  of  super- 
human things.  The  modern  world  crumbled  before  the 
impassive  silence,  criticism  found  no  challenge  in  its 
brooding  spirit,  for  the  mind  cannot  analyze  what  it 
cannot  measure. 

Max  subscribed  to  no  creed;  but,  by  a  strange  im- 
pulsion, born  of  dead  ages,  his  eyes  fell  from  the  glowing 
window  and  turned  to  the  high  altar.  He  did  not  want 
to  pray;  he  rebelled  against  the  idea  of  supplication; 
but  the  circling  thoughts  within  him  concentrated  sud- 
denly, he  clasped  his  hands  with  a  clasp  so  fierce  that  it 
was  pain. 

"Oh,  God!"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "God!  God, 
let  me  possess  myself!"  And  as  if  some  chord  had 
snapped,  relieving  the  tension  in  his  brain,  he  dropped 
upon  his  knees,  as  he  had  once  done  at  the  foot  of  his 
own  staircase  and,  crouching  against  a  pillar,  wept  like 
a  lost  child. 
18 


PART    IV 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  last  days  of  August  in  Paris!  A  deadly  op- 
pression of  heat;  a  brooding  inertia  that  lay  upon 
the  city  like  a  cloak! 

In  the  little  appartement  every  window  stood  gaping, 
thirsting  for  a  draught  of  air;  but  no  stir  lightened  the 
haze  that  weighed  upon  the  atmosphere,  no  faintest 
hint  of  breeze  ruffled  the  plantation  shrubs,  dark  in 
their  fulness  of  summer  foliage.  Stillness  lay  upon 
Montmartre — upon  the  rue  Miiller — most  heavily  of  all, 
upon  the  home  of  Max. 

It  was  an  obvious,  weighty  stillness  unconnected  with 
repose.  It  seemed  as  though  the  spirit  of  the  place 
were  fled,  and  that  in  its  stead  the  vacant  quiet  of  death 
reigned.  In  the  salon  the  empty  hearth  hurt  the  ob- 
server with  its  poignant  suggestion  of  past  comrade- 
ship, dead  fires,  long  hours  when  the  spring  gales  had 
whistled  through  the  plantation  and  stories  had  been 
told  and  dreams  woven  to  the  spurt  of  blue  and  copper 
flames.  The  place  had  an  aspect  of  desertion ;  no  book 
lay  thrown,  face  downward,  upon  chair  or  table;  no 
flowers  glowed  against  the  white  walls,  though  flowers 
were  to  be  had  for  the  asking  in  a  land  that  teemed  with 
summer  fruitfulness. 

This  was  the  salon;  but  in  the  studio  the  note  of 
loss  was  still  more  sharply  struck.  Not  because  the 
easel,  drawn  into  the  full  light,  offered  to  the  gaze  a 
crude,  unfinished  study,  nor  yet  because  a  laden  palette 

273 


MAX 

was  cast  upon  the  floor  to  consort  with  tubes  and 
brushes,  but  because  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place 
Max — Max  the  debonair,  Max  the  adventurous — was 
seated  on  a  chair  before  his  canvas,  a  prey  to  black 
despair. 

Max  was  thinner.  The  great  heat  of  August— or 
some  more  potent  cause — had  smoothed  the  curves 
from  his  youthful  face,  drawn  the  curled  lips  into  an 
unfamiliar  hardness  and  painted  purple  shadows  be- 
neath the  eyes.  Max  had  fought  a  long  fight  in  the 
three  months  that  had  dwindled  since  the  morning  of 
Blake's  going,  and  a  long  moral  fight  has  full  as  many 
scars  to  leave  behind  as  a  battle  of  physical  issues. 
The  saddest  human  experience  is  to  view  alone  the 
scenes  one  has  viewed  through  other  eyes — to  walk 
solitary  where  one  has  walked  in  company — to  have  its 
particular  barbed  shaft  aimed  at  one  from  every  stick 
and  stone  that  mark  familiar  ways.  All  this  Max  had 
known,  wrapping  himself  in  his  pride,  keeping  long 
silence,  fighting  his  absurd,  brave  fight. 

'The  first  days  will  be  the  worst!'  he  had  assured 
himself,  walking  back  from  Notre  Dame  in  the  search- 
ing sun,  heedless  of  who  might  notice  his  red  eyes.  '  The 
first  days  will  be  the  worst!'  And  this  formula  he  had 
repeated  in  the  morning,  standing  uninspired  and 
wretched  before  a  blank  canvas.  Then  had  come 
Blake's  first  message — a  note  written  from  Sweden 
without  care  or  comfort,  importing  nothing,  indicating 
nothing  beyond  the  place  at  which  the  writer  might  be 
found,  and  tears — torrents  of  tears — had  testified  to  the 
fierce  anticipation,  the  crushing  disappointment  for 
which  it  was  responsible. 

He  had  sent  no  answer  to  the  cold  communication — 
no  answer  had  been  desired,  and  calling  himself  by 
every  name  contempt  could  coin,  he  had  pushed  for- 

274 


MAX 

ward  along  the  lonely  road,  companioned  by  his  work. 
But  he  himself  had  once  said:  'One  must  come  naked 
and  whole  to  art,  as  one  must  come  naked  and  whole  to 
nature,'  and  he  had  spoken  a  truth.  Art  is  no  anodyne 
for  a  soul  wounded  in  other  fields,  and  Art  closed  arms 
to  him  when  most  he  wooed  her.  He  threw  himself 
into  work  with  pitiable  vehemence  in  those  first  black 
weeks.  By  day,  he  haunted  the  galleries  and  attended 
classes  like  any  art  student;  by  night,  he  ranged  the 
streets  and  cafes,  seeking  inspiration,  returning  to  his 
lonely  room  to  lie  wakeful,  fighting  his  ghosts,  or  else 
to  sob  himself  to  sleep. 

His  theory  of  life  had  been  amply  proved.  Blake 
had  prated  of  the  soul,  but  it  had  been  the  body  he  had 
desired!  Again  and  again  that  thought  had  struck 
home,  a  savage  spur  goading  him  in  daytime  to  a  wild 
plying  of  his  brushes,  gripping  him  in  the  lonely  dark- 
ness of  the  night-time  until  his  sobs  were  suspended  by 
their  very  poignancy  and  the  scalding  tears  dried  before 
they  could  fall. 

He  saw  darkly,  he  saw  untruly,  but  the  world  is  ac- 
cording to  the  beholder's  vision,  and  in  those  sultry 
days,  when  summer  waxed  and  Paris  emptied,  opening 
its  gates  to  the  foreigner,  all  the  colors  had  receded  from 
existence  and  he  had  tasted  the  lees  of  life. 

And  now  to-day  it  seemed  that  the  climax  had  been 
reached.  Seated  idly  before  his  canvas,  the  whole  pro- 
cession of  his  Paris  life  unwound  before  him — from  the 
first  tumultuous  hour,  when  he  had  entered  the  Hotel 
Railleux  on  fire  for  freedom,  to  this  moment  when,  with 
dull  resentful  eyes,  he  confronted  the  sum  of  his  labors — 
an  unfinished,  sorry  study  devoid  of  inspiration. 

He  stared  at  the  flat  canvas — the  rough  outline  of  his 
picture^the  reckless  splashing  on  of  color;  and,  abrupt- 
ly, as  if  a  hand  had  touched  him,  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 

275 


MAX 

making  havoc  among  the  paint  tubes  that  strewed  the 
floor,  and  turned  summarily  to  the  open  window. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock,  but  the  hazy,  unreal  day- 
light of  a  summer  evening  made  all  things  visible.  He 
scanned  the  plantation,  viewing  it  as  if  in  some  travesty 
of  morning;  he  looked  down  upon  the  city,  sleeping 
uneasily  in  preparation  for  the  inevitable  night  of  pleas- 
ure, and  a  sudden  loathing  of  Paris  shook  him.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  gauzy  illusive  garment  had  been 
lifted  from  a  fair  body  and  that  his  eyes,  made  free  of 
the  white  limbs,  had  discerned  a  corpse. 

By  a  natural  flight  of  ideas,  the  loathing  of  the  city 
turned  to  loathing  of  himself — to  an  unsatiable  desire 
for  self-forgetfulness,  for  self-effacement.  Solitude  was 
no  longer  tenable,  the  walls  of  the  appartement  seemed 
to  close  in  about  him,  stifling — suffocating  him.  With 
a  feverish  movement,  he  turned  from  the  window,  picked 
up  his  hat  and  fled  the  room. 

On  the  landing  he  paused  for  a  moment  before  the 
door  of  M.  Cartel.  He  had  paid  many  visits  to  M. 
Cartel  under  stress  of  circumstances  similar  to  this,  and 
invariably  M.  Cartel — and,  moving  in  his  shadow,  the 
demure  Jacqueline — had  proffered  a  generous  hospitality 
— talking  to  him  of  work,  of  politics,  of  Paris,  but  with 
a  Frenchman's  inimitable  tact. 

For  all  this  unobtrusive  attention  he  had  been  silently 
grateful,  but  to-night  he  stood  by  the  door  hesitating; 
for  long  he  hesitated,  honestly  fighting  with  his  mood, 
but  at  last  the  desperation  of  the  mood  prevailed.  Who 
could  talk  of  work,  when  work  was  as  an  evil  smell  in 
the  nostrils  ?  Who  could  talk  of  politics,  when  the  over- 
throw of  nations  would  not  stimulate  the  mind?  He 
turned  on  his  heel  with  a  little  exclamation,  hopeless  as  it 
was  cynical,  and  ran  down  the  stairs  with  the  gait  of  one 
whose  destination  concerns  neither  the  world  nor  himself. 

276 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

MAX  swung  down  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie  in  as 
reckless  a  mood  as  ever  possessed  being  of  either 
sex.  Nothing  of  the  sweet  Maxine  was  discernible  in 
face  or  carriage;  the  boy  predominated,  but  a  boy  pos- 
sessed of  a  callousness  that  was  pathetic  seen  hand-in- 
hand  with  youth. 

For  the  first  time  he  was  viewing  Paris  bereft  of  the 
glamour  of  romance;  for  the  first  time  the  Masque  of 
Folly  passed  before  him,  licentious  and  unashamed. 
Many  an  hour,  in  days  gone  by,  he  had  discussed  with 
Blake  this  lighter  side  of  many-sided  Paris,  and  with 
Blake's  wise  and  penetrating  gaze  he  had  seen  it  in  true 
perspective;  but  to-night  there  was  no  sane  interpreter 
to  temper  vision,  to-night  he  was  bitterly  alone,  and  his 
mind,  from  long  austerity,  long  concentration  upon  work, 
had  swung  with  grievous  suddenness  to  the  opposing  pole 
of  thought.  He  had  no  purpose  in  his  descent  from  the 
rue  Muller,  he  had  no  desire  of  vice  as  an  antidote  to  pain, 
but  his  loathing  of  Paris  was  drawing  him  to  her  with 
that  morbid  craving  to  hurt  and  rehurt  his  bruised  soul 
that  assails  the  artist  in  times  of  misery. 

The  streets  were  quiet,  for  it  was  scarcely  nine  o'clock, 
and  as  yet  the  lethargy  of  the  day  lay  heavy  on  the  air. 
The  heat  and  the  accompanying  laxity  breathed  an 
atmosphere  of  its  own ;  every  window  of  every  house 
gaped,  and  behind  the  casements  one  caught  visions  of 
men  and  women  negligent  of  attire  and  heedless  of 
observation. 

277 


MAX 

Romance  was  dead!  Of  that  supreme  fact  Max  was 
very  sure.  A  hard  smile  touched  his  lips,  and  hugging 
his  cynicism,  he  went  forward — crossing  the  Boulevard 
de  Clichy,  plunging  downward  into  the  darker  regions  of 
the  rue  des  Martyrs  and  the  rue  Montmartre,  where  the 
lights  of  the  boulevards  are  left  behind,  and  the  sight-seer 
is  apt  to  look  askance  at  the  crude  facts  that  the  street 
lamps  divulge  to  his  curious  eyes.  To  the  boy,  these 
corners  had  no  terrors,  for  in  his  untarnished  friendship 
with  Blake  all  sides  of  life  had  been  viewed  in  turn,  as 
all  topics  had  been  discussed  as  component  parts  of  a 
fascinatingly  interesting  world.  To-night  he  went  for- 
ward, mingling  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  district, 
revelling  with  morbid  realism  in  the  forbidding  dinginess 
of  their  appearance.  He  was  not  of  that  quarter — that 
was  patent  to  every  rough  who  lounged  outside  a  cafe 
door,  as  it  was  patent  to  every  slovenly  woman  who  gave 
him  a  glance  in  passing.  He  was  not  of  the  quarter,  but 
he  was  an  artist — and  a  shabby  one  at  that — so  the  men 
accorded  him  an  indifferent  shrug  and  the  women  a 
second  glance. 

Forward  he  went,  possessed  by  his  morbidity — for- 
ward into  the  growing  murkiness  of  environment  until, 
association  of  ideas  suddenly  curbing  impulse,  he  stopped 
before  the  door  of  a  shabby  cafe  bearing  the  fanciful 
appellation  of  the  Cafe  des  Cerises-jumelles.  Once,  when 
bound  upon  a  night  exploration  in  this  same  region,  he 
and  Blake  had  stopped  to  smile  at  this  odd  name  and 
wonder  at  its  origin,  and  finally  they  had  passed  through 
the  portal  to  find  that  the  twin  cherries  smiled  upon 
doubtful  patrons.  The  vivid  memory  of  that  night 
smote  him  now  as,  drawn  by  some  unquestioned  in- 
fluence, he  again  entered  the  cafe,  passing  through  a 
species  of  bar  to  a  long,  low-ceiled  eating-room  set  with 
small  tables.     How  Blake  had  talked  that  night!     How 

278 


MAX 

thoughtfully,  how  humanely  and  tolerantly  he  had 
judged  their  fellow-guests,  as  they  sat  at  one  of  these 
tables,  rubbing  shoulders  with  the  worst — or,  as  he  had 
laughingly  insisted,  the  best — of  an  odd  fraternity! 

The  recollection  was  keen  as  a  knife  when  Max  entered 
the  eating-room,  sat  down  and  ordered  a  drink  with  the 
supreme  indifference  of  disillusion.  Six  months  ago  he 
would  have  trembled  to  find  himself  alone  in  such  a 
place;  to-night  he  was  beyond  such  a  commonplace  as 
fear. 

He  smiled  again  cynically,  emptied  his  glass  and  looked 
about  him.  His  first  experience  of  the  place  had  been 
in  the  hours  succeeding  midnight,  when  the  quarter 
hummed  with  its  unsavory  life;  but  now  it  was  early,  the 
lights  were  not  yet  at  their  fullest,  the  waiters  had  not 
as  yet  taken  on  their  nocturnal  air  of  briskness.  In  one 
corner  three  men  were  engrossed  in  a  game  of  cards,  in 
another  a  thin  girl  of  fifteen  sat  with  her  arm  round  the 
neck  of  a  boy  scarce  older  than  herself,  whispering  jests 
into  his  ear,  at  which  they  both  laughed  in  coarse  low 
murmurs,  while  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  her  back 
turned  to  him,  a  woman  in  a  tight  black  dress  and 
feathered  hat  was  eating  a  meal  of  poached  eggs. 

In  a  vague  way,  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  Max 
fell  to  studying  this  solitary  woman,  until  something  in 
her  impassivity,  something  in  the  sphinx-like  calm  with 
which  she  went  through  the  business  of  her  meal,  blent 
with  his  imaginings,  and  he  suddenly  found  her  placed 
beside  Blake  in  the  possession  of  his  thoughts — an  in- 
tegral part  of  their  joint  lives.  In  a  flash  of  memory  the 
large  black  hat,  the  opulent  figure  took  place  within  his 
consciousness  and,  answering  to  a  new  instinct,  he  rose 
and  took  an  involuntary  step  in  the  woman's  direc- 
tion. 

She  changed  her  position  at  sound  of  his  approach,  her 

279 


MAX 

large  hat  described  new  angles,  and  she  looked  back  over 
her  shoulder. 

"  What!"  she  said  aloud.  " The  little  friend  of  Blake! 
But  how  droll!" 

She  showed  no  surprise,  she  merely  waved  her  hand  to 
a  chair  facing  her  own. 

Max  sat  down;  a  hot  and  dirty  waiter  came  forward 
languidly,  and  wine  was  ordered. 

Lize  pushed  aside  the  glass  of  green-tinted  liquid  that 
she  had  been  consuming  through  a  straw,  and  waited 
for  what  was  to  come.  Max,  looking  at  her  in  the  crude 
light  of  a  gas-jet,  saw  that  her  face  was  whiter,  her  eyes 
more  hollow  than  when  her  wrath  had  fallen  on  him  at 
the  Bal  Tabarin;  also,  he  noted  that  a  little  dew  of  heat 
showed  through  the  mask  of  powder  on  her  face. 

Silence  was  maintained  until  the  wine  was  brought; 
then  she  drank  thirstily,  laid  down  her  empty  glass  and 
turned  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"  You  have  parted  with  your  friend,  eh  ?" 

The  surprise  of  the  question  was  so  sharp  that  it  killed 
speculation.  He  did  not  ask  how  she  had  probed  his 
secret — whether  by  mere  intuition  or  through  some 
feminine  confidence  of  Jacqueline's.  The  fact  of  her 
knowledge  swept  him  beyond  the  region  of  lucid  thought ; 
he  accepted  the  situation  as  it  was  offered. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  I  have  parted  with  my  friend." 

"  And  why  ?  He  is  a  good  boy — Blake !"  She  looked 
at  him  with  her  inscrutable  eyes,  and  after  many  days 
he  was  conscious  of  the  touch  of  human  compassion. 
He  did  not  analyze  the  woman's  feelings — he  did  not 
even  conjecture  whether  she  knew  him  for  boy  or  girl. 
All  he  comprehended  was  that  out  of  this  sordid  atmos- 
phere— out  of  the  lethargy  of  the  sultry  night — some 
force  had  touched  him,  some  force  was  drawing  him 
back  into  the  circle  of  human  things.     Strange  indeed 

280 


MAX 

are  the  workings  of  the  mind.  He,  who  had  shrunk 
with  an  agonized  sensitiveness  from  the  sympathy  of  M. 
Cartel — from  the  tender  comprehension  of  the  little 
Jacqueline — suddenly  felt  his  reserve  melt  and  break  in 
presence  of  this  woman  of  the  boulevards  with  her  air  of 
impassive  ennui.  Theoretically,  he  knew  life  in  all  its 
harder  aspects,  and  it  called  for  no  vivid  imagination 
to  trace  the  descent  of  the  fresh  grisette  of  the  Quartier 
Latin  to  the  creature  who  sought  her  meals  in  the  Cafe 
des  Cerises-jumelles,  yet  hers  was  the  accepted  com- 
passion. 

"Madame!"  he  said,  suddenly.  "Madame,  tell  me! 
You  knew  him  once?" 

Lize  wiped  the  dew  of  heat  from  her  forehead;  emptied 
a  second  glass  of  wine.  "A  thousand  years  ago,  mon 
petit,  when  the  world  was  as  young  as  you!" 

"In  the  Quartier?" 

"  In  the  Quartier — on  the  Boul'  Mich' — at  Bulliers — " 
She  stopped,  falling  into  a  dream;  then,  suddenly,  from 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  came  the  sound  of  a 
loud  kiss,  and  the  boy  and  girl  at  the  distant  table  began 
to  sing  in  unison — a  ribald  song,  but  instinct  with  the 
zest  of  life.  Lize  started,  as  though  she  had  been 
struck. 

"They  have  it — youth!"  she  cried,  with  a  jerk  of  her 
head  toward  the  distant  corner.  "The  world  is  for 
them!"  Then  her  voice  and  her  expression  altered. 
She  leaned  across  the  table,  until  her  face  was  close 
to  Max. 

"  What  a  little  fool  you  are!"  she  said.  " It  is  written 
in  those  eyes  of  yours— that  see  too  little  and  see  too 
much.  Go  home!  Think  of  what  I  have  said!  He  is 
a  good  boy — this  Blake!" 

Max  mechanically  replenished  her  glass,  and  me- 
chanically she  drank;   then  she  produced  a  little  mirror 

281 


MAX 

and  made  good  the  ravages  of  the  heat  upon  her  face 
with  the  nonchalance  of  her  kind;  finally,  she  looked 
at  the  clock. 

"Come!"  she  said.     "We  go  the  same  way." 

He  rose  obediently.  He  made  no  question  as  to  her 
destination.  He  had  come  to  drown  himself  in  the 
sordidness  of  Paris  and,  behold,  his  heart  was  beating 
with  a  human  quickness  it  had  not  known  since  the 
moment  he  held  Blake's  first  letter  unopened  in  his 
hand;  his  throat  was  dry,  his  eyes  were  smarting  with 
the  old,  half-forgotten  smart  of  unshed  tears. 

He  followed  her  with  a  strange  docility  as  she  passed 
out  of  the  unsavory  Cerises- jumelles  into  the  close,  ill- 
smelling  street.  In  complete  silence  they  walked  through 
what  seemed  a  nightmare  world  of  unpleasant  sights, 
unpleasant  sounds,  until  across  his  dazed  thoughts  the 
familiar  sense  of  Paris — the  sense  of  the  pleasure-chase 
— swept  from  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy. 

Lize  paused;  he  saw  her  fully  in  the  brave  illumina- 
tion— the  large  black  hat,  the  close-clad  figure,  the 
pallid  face — and  as  he  looked,  she  smiled  unexpectedly 
and,  putting  out  her  hand,  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Good-bye,  mon  enfant!  Go  home!  Youth  comes 
but  once;  and  this  Blake — he  is  a  good  boy!" 

Before  he  could  answer,  before  he  could  return  smile 
or  touch,  she  was  gone — absorbed  into  the  maze  of 
lights,  and  he  was  alone,  to  turn  which  way  he  would. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  fifth  floor  was  dim  and  silent,  the  door  of  M. 
Cartel's  appartement  was  closed;  but  Max,  mount- 
ing the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  was  not  daunted  by 
silence  or  lack  of  light.  Max  was  once  again  a  prey  to 
impulse,  and  under  the  familiar  tyranny,  his  blood 
burned — raced  in  his  veins,  sang  in  his  ears. 

Without  an  instant's  pause,  he  knocked  on  M.  Cartel's 
door,  and  when  his  knock  was  answered  by  Jacqueline — - 
fair  and  cool-looking,  oven  in  the  great  heat — words 
rushed  from  him  as  they  had  been  wont  to  rush  when 
life  was  a  gay  affair. 

"You  are  alone,  Jacqueline?" 

Jacqueline  nodded  quickly,  comprehending  a  crisis. 

"Ah,  I  thank  God!"  He  caught  both  her  hands;  he 
gave  a  little  laugh  that  ended  in  a  sob;  he  passed  into 
the  appartement,  drawing  her  with  him. 

"Oh,  la,  la!"  she  cried,  hiding  her  emotion  in  flip- 
pancy, "you  take  my  breath  away." 

Max  laughed  again.     "You  see  I've  lost  my  own!" 

She  gave  a  scornful,  familiar  toss  of  the  head.  "  Do 
not  be  foolish!     What  has  happened?" 

"  I  have  made  a  discovery,  Jacqueline.  Youth  comes 
but  once!" 

"Indeed!  You  need  not  have  left  the  rue  Miiller  to 
learn  that." 

"  It  comes  but  once,  and  while  it  is  with  me  I  am  go- 
ing to  look  it  in  the  face."     His  words  tumbled  forth, 

283 


MAX 

pell-mell,  and  as  he  spoke  he  pulled  her  forcibly  into  the 
living-room. 

"Jacqueline,  I  am  serious.  I  have  been  down  in  hell; 
I  must  see  heaven,  or  my  faith  is  lost." 

Jacqueline  stood  very  still,  making  no  effort  to  loose.the 
hot  clasp  of  his  hands,  but  all  at  once  her  gaze  concen- 
trated piercingly. 

"  You  have  sent  for  him!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  have!  Oh,  I  may  be  weak,  but  listen!  listen!  In 
the  old  days  when  the  world  was  religious  and  people 
observed  Lent,  there  was  always  Mi-Careme,  was  there 
not  ?     Well,  I  have  fasted,  and  now  I  must  feast." 

They  gazed  at  each  other;  the  one  aglow  with  antici- 
pation, the  other  with  curiosity. 

"You  have  sent  for  him — at  last?" 

"  I  have  sent  a  telegram  with  these  words:  'Meet  me 
at  midday  on  Tuesday  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. — 
Maxine.'" 

"  And  this  is  Friday,"  said  Jacqueline.  "  In  four  days' 
time  you  will  see  him  again!" 

"  Again !"     Max  spoke  the  word  inaudibly. 

"  And — when  you  meet  ?"  Jacqueline's  blue  eyes  were 
sharp  as  needle-points. 

Max  colored  to  the  temples.  "  Ma  cMrie,  I  have  not 
even  thought !  All  I  know  is  that  youth  comes  but  once, 
and  that  youth  is  courage.  I  have  been  a  coward — I 
am  going  to  be  brave." 

"You  are  going — to  confess?" 

Max  said  nothing,  but  with  her  woman's  instinct  for 
such  things,  Jacqueline  read  assent  in  the  silence. 

"Then  the  end  is  assured!  He  will  take  you — with 
your  will,  or  without!  Monsieur  Max,  or  the  prin- 
cess!" 

Max  shook  his  head.  "  I  do  not  think  so.  But  that 
is  outside  the  moment — that  is  the  afterward.     First 

284 


MAX 

there  must  be  midday  and  the  Place  de  la  Concorde! 
First  there  must  be  my  Mi-Careme — my  hour!" 

"Ah!"  whispered  the  little  Jacqueline,  "your  hour!" 
And  who  shall  say  what  memories  glinted  through  her 
quick  brain — what  conjurings  of  the  first  waltz  with 
M.  Cartel  at  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette,  and  the  last  waltz  at 
the  Bal  Tabarin,  when  she  stepped  through  the  tawdry 
doorway  into  her  paradise?  "Your  hour!  And  where 
will  it  be  spent — madame  ?" 

"Ah!"  Max's  eyes  sought  heaven  or,  in  lieu  of 
heaven,  M.  Cartel's  ceiling;  Max's  hands  freed  Jacque- 
line's and  flew  out  in  ecstatic  gesture.  "Ah,  that  is  for 
the  gods  to  say,  cherie!     And  the  gods  know  best." 

19 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

RAPTURE  gilded  the  world;  rapture  trembled  on 
the  air  like  the  vibrations  of  a  chord  struck  from 
some  celestial  harp.  Coming  as  a  divine  gift,  the  first 
autumnal  frost  had  lighted  upon  Paris ;  during  the  night 
fainting  August  had  died,  and  with  the  dawn,  golden 
September  had  been  born  to  the  city. 

Blake,  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  Cours  la  Reine,  con- 
sumed with  anticipation,  drank  in  the  freshness  of  the 
morning  as  though  it  were  a  draught  of  wine;  Maxine, 
crossing  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  lifted  her  face  to  the 
sky,  striving  to  quiet  her  pulses,  to  cool  her  hot  cheeks 
in  the  wash  of  gentle  air. 

Her  hour  had  arrived ;  none  could  hinder  its  approach, 
as  none  could  mar  its  beauty.  She  scarcely  recognized 
the  earth  upon  which  she  trod;  the  fierce  excitement, 
the  melting  tenderness  of  her  moods  warred  until  emo- 
tion ran  riot  and  the  sifting  of  her  feelings  became  a  task 
impossible. 

She  passed  the  spot  where,  eight  months  earlier,  Max 
had  saluted  the  flag  of  France.  Her  heart  leaped,  her 
glance,  flying  before  her,  discovered  Blake  waiting  at  his 
appointed  place,  and  all  her  wild  sensations  were  sus- 
pended. 

The  violently  beating  heart  seemed  to  stop,  the  blood 
moved  with  a  sick  slowness  in  her  veins,  it  seemed  im- 
possible that  she  should  go  forward,  and  yet,  by  the 
curious  mechanism  of  the  human  machine,   her  feet 

286 


MAX 

carried  her  on  until  Blake's  presence  was  tangible  to  all 
her  senses — until  suspense  was  engulfed  in  actuality,  and 
joy  was  singing  about  her  in  the  air,  a  song  so  triumphant, 
so  penetrating  that  it  drowned  all  whispering  of  doubt — - 
all  murmurs  of  to-morrow  or  of  yesterday.  Tears  welled 
into  her  eyes,  her  hands  went  out  to  him. 

Standing  in  the  full  light,  she  was  a  tall,  slight  girl, 
fastidiously,  if  simply  dressed — veiled,  gloved,  shod  as 
befitted  a  woman  of  the  world;  and  as  he  gazed  on  her, 
one  thought  possessed  Blake.  She,  who  typified  all 
beauty — whose  presence  was  a  fragrance — had  called  to 
him,  chosen  him.  All  the  romance  stored  up  through 
generations  welled  within  him;  he  would  have  died  for 
her  at  that  moment  as  enthusiastically  as  his  ancestors 
had  died  for  their  faith.  Catching  her  hands,  he  kissed 
them  without  a  thought  for  passing  glances. 

"Princess!" 

The  sound  of  his  voice  went  through  her,  she  laughed 
to  break  the  sob  that  caught  her  throat,  she  looked  up, 
unashamed  of  the  tears  trembling  on  her  lashes. 

"Monsieur  Ned!" 

" Oh,  why  the  'monsieur'?" 

"Why  the  'princess'?" 

They  both  smiled. 

"Maxine!" 

"  Mon  ami!  Mon  cher  ami!"  It  thrilled  her  to  the 
heart  to  say  the  words;  she  glanced  at  him  half  fear- 
fully, then  broke  forth  afresh,  lest  he  should  have  time 
to  think.  "Ned,  tell  me!  It  is  true — all  this?  I  am 
not  asleep  ?     It  is  not  a  dream  ?" 

He  pressed  her  hands.  "Look  round  you!  It  is 
morning." 

Her  lips  trembled;  she  obeyed  him,  looking  slowly 
from  the  cool  sky  to  the  tree-tops,  where  the  heavy 
leaves  were  still  damp  with  the  night's  frost. 

287 


MAX 

"Yes,  it  is  morning!"  she  said.  "We  have  all  the 
day!" 

Watching  her  intently,  he  did  not  add,  as  would  the 
common  lover,  "we  have  many  days";  she  seemed  to 
him  so  beautiful,  so  naive  that  her  words  must  compass 
perfection. 

"We  have  all  the  day,"  he  echoed.  "How  shall  it 
be  spent?" 

Then  she  turned  to  him,  all  graciousness,  her  young 
face  lifted  to  the  light.  "Ah,  you  must  decide!  I  do 
not  wish  even  to  think;  the  world  is  so — how  do  you 
say — enchanted  ?" 

He  laughed  in  delight  at  her  charming,  pleading  smile, 
her  charming,  pleading  hesitation;  he  caught  her  mood 
with  swift  intuition. 

"That's  it!  The  world  is  enchanted!  Away  behind 
us,  is  the  Dreaming  Wood.  What  do  you  say?  Shall 
we  go  and  seek  the  Sleeping  Beauty?" 

She  nodded  silently.  He  was  so  perfectly  the  Blake  of 
old — the  Blake  who  understood. 

"  Then  the  first  thing  is  to  find  the  magic  coach !  We 
must  have  nothing  so  mundane  as  a  carriage  drawn  by 
horses.  A  magic  coach  that  travels  by  itself!"  He 
signalled  to  a  passing  automobile. 

"Drive  to  the  Pre  Catelan — and  drive  slowly!"  he 
directed;  he  handed  her  to  her  seat  with  all  the  courtli- 
ness proper  to  the  occasion,  and  they  were  off,  wheeling 
up  the  long  incline  toward  the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 

They  were  silent  while  the  chauffeur  made  a  way 
through  the  many  vehicles,  past  the  crowds  of  pedes- 
trians that  infest  the  entrance  to  the  Bois;  but  as  the 
way  grew  clearer — as  the  spell  of  the  trees,  of  the  green 
vistas  and  glimpsed  water  began  to  weave  itself— 
Maxine  turned  and  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  Blake's. 

"  Mon  cherl    How  good  you  are!" 

288 


MAX 

He  started,  thrilling  at  her  touch. 

"My  dearest!     Good?" 

"  In  coming  to  me  like  this — " 

He  caught  her  hand  quickly.  "Don't!"  he  said. 
"Don't!  It  isn't  right — from  you  to  me.  You  never 
doubted  that  I'd  come?     You  knew  I'd  come?" 

"Yes;    I  knew." 

'Then  that's  all  right!"  He  pressed  her  hand,  he 
smiled,  he  reassured  her  by  all  the  subtle,  intangible 
ways  known  to  lovers,  and  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that 
he  had  altered,  had  grown  mentally  in  his  months  of 
exile — that  he  was  steadier,  more  certain  of  life  or  of 
himself,  than  when  he  had  rushed  tempestuously  out  of 
Max's  studio.  She  pondered  the  change,  without  at- 
tempting to  analyze  it;  a  deep  sense  of  rest  possessed 
her,  and  she  allowed  her  hand  to  lie  passive  in  his  until, 
all  too  soon,  their  cab  swept  round  to  the  left,  sped  past 
a  bank  of  greenery  and  drew  up,  with  a  creaking  of 
brakes,  before  the  restaurant  of  the  Pre*  Catelan. 

Everywhere  was  light,  silence  and,  best  boon  of  all, 
an  unexpected  solitude — a  solitude  that  invested  the 
white  building  with  a  glamour  of  unreality  and  con- 
verted the  slight-stemmed,  moss-grown  trees  into  spell- 
bound sentinels. 

"Here  is  the  Castle!"  said  Blake.  "Look!  Even 
the  waiters  doze,  until  we  come  to  wake  them!"  He 
handed  her  to  the  ground,  gave  his  orders  to  the  chauf- 
feur, and  as  the  cab  disappeared  into  some  unseen 
region,  they  mounted  the  wide  steps. 

"Monsieur  desires  dejemter?"  A  sleek  waiter  dis- 
engaged himself  from  his  brethren  and  came  persuasive- 
ly forward.  At  this  early  hour  everything  at  the  Pre 
Catelan  was  soft  and  soothing;  later  in  the  day  things 
would  alter,  the  service  would  be  swift  and  unrestful, 
the  swish  of  motor-cars  and  the  hum  of  voices  would 

289 


MAX 

break  the  spell,  but  at  this  hour  of  noon  Paris,  for  some 
obscure  reason,  ignored  the  fruitful  oasis  of  the  Bois, 
and  peace  lay  upon  it  like  balm. 

"  How  charming !  Oh,  but  how  charming!"  The  ex- 
clamation was  won  from  Maxine  as  her  glance  skimmed 
the  palms,  the  glittering  glasses  and  the  white  table- 
linen,  and  rested  upon  the  spacious  windows  that  con- 
vey the  fascinating  impression  that  one  whole  wall  of 
the  room  has  been  removed,  and  that  the  ranged  trees 
outside  with  their  satiny  green  stems  actually  commune 
with  the  gourmet  as  he  eats  his  meal. 

"It's  what  you  wanted,  isn't  it?"  Blake's  pleasure 
in  her  pleasure  was  patent.  Every  look,  every  gesture 
manifested  it. 

"It  is  wonderful!"  she  said,  gently. 

"  Good !  And  now,  what  is  the  meal  to  be  ?  Dragon's 
wings  en  casserole?     Or  Moonbeams  surprise?" 

She  laughed,  and  a  flash  of  mischief  stole  through  the 
glance  she  gave  him. 

"What  do  you  say,  mon  ami,  to  poulet  bonne  femme?" 

She  watched  for  a  gleam  of  remembrance,  but  he  was 
too  engrossed  in  the  present  to  recall  the  trivialities  of 
the  past.  He  gave  the  order  without  a  thought  save 
to  do  her  will. 

Delay  was  inevitable,  and  while  the  meal  was  in  prep- 
aration they  wandered  into  the  open  and  visited  the 
farm  at  the  rear  of  the  restaurant,  conjuring  the  farm- 
like traditions  of  the  place  after  the  accepted  custom — 
entering  the  sweet-smelling,  shadowy  cow-shed,  stroking 
the  sleek,  soft-breathing  cows,  amusing  themselves  over 
the  antics  of  the  monkey  chained  beside  the  door. 

It  was  all  very  pleasant,  the  illusion  of  Arcadia  was 
charmingly  rendered,  and  they  returned,  happy  and 
hungry,  in  search  of  their  meal.  That  meal  from  its 
first  morsel  was  raised  above  common  things,  for  was  it 

290 


MAX 

not  the  first  time  Blake  had  broken  bread  with  Maxine  ? 
And  what  true  lover  ever  forgets  the  rare  moment  when 
all  the  joys  of  intimacy  are  foreshadowed  in  the  first 
serving  of  his  lady  with  no  matter  what  triviality  of 
meat  or  bread,  or  water  or  wine?  The  points  of  the 
affair  are  so  slight  and  yet  so  tremendous;  for  are  they 
not  sacramental — a  typifying  of  things  unspeakable? 

No  intimate  word  was  spoken,  but  at  such  times  looks 
speak — more  poignantly  still,  hearts  speak:  and  their 
gay  voices,  as  they  laughed  and  talked  and  laughed 
again,  held  notes  that  the  ear  of  the  waiter  never  caught, 
and  their  silences  vibrated  with  meaning. 

At  last  the  meal  was  over;  they  rose  and  by  one 
consent  looked  toward  the  spacious  world  outside. 

"Shall  we  go  into  the  gardens?" 

Blake  put  the  question ;  Maxine  silently  bent  her  head. 

Softly  and  assiduously  their  sleek  waiter  bowed  them 
to  the  door,  and  they  pass  d  down  the  shallow  steps  into 
the  slim  shadows  of  the  trees  as  they  might  have  passed 
into  some  paradise  fashioned  for  their  special  pleasure. 

It  was  a  place — an  hour — removed  from  the  mundane 
world;  passing  out  of  the  region  of  the  trees,  they  came 
upon  a  shrubbery — a  shrubbery  that  enclosed  a  lawn 
and  flower-beds,  and  here,  by  grace  of  the  gods,  was  a 
seat  where  they  sat  down  side  by  side  and  gave  their 
eyes  to  the  beauty  that  encompassed  them. 

It  was  an  exotic  beauty,  yet  a  beauty  of  intense  sug- 
gestion. Summer  lay  lavishly  displayed  in  the  shaven 
lawn,  the  burdened  shrubs,  the  glory  of  flowers,  but  over 
her  redundant  loveliness  autumn  had  spun  an  ethereal 
garment.  No  words  could  paint  the  subtlety  of  this 
sheath ;  it  was  neither  mist  nor  shadow,  it  was  a  golden 
transparency  spun  from  nature's  loom — the  bridal  veil 
of  the  young  season. 

"How  exquisite!"  whispered  Maxine,  as  if  a  breath 

291 


MAX 

might  break  the  spell.  "Look  at  those  yellow  butter- 
flies above  the  flowers!  They  are  the  only  moving 
things." 

"It  is  the  place  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  sweet!  It  is 
the  place  of  love."  Blake  took  her  hands  again  and 
kissed  them;  then,  with  a  gentle,  enveloping  tenderness, 
he  drew  her  to  him,  looking  into  her  face,  but  not  at- 
tempting to  touch  it. 

"  My  sweet,  I  have  come  back.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me?" 

She  did  not  answer;  she  lay  quite  still  within  his 
arms,  her  half-closed  eyes  lingering  on  the  garden — on 
the  white  roses,  the  clustering  mignonette,  the  hovering 
yellow  butterflies. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  dewy  with  the  beauty  of  the 
world. 

"Wait!"  she  whispered.     "Oh,  wait!" 

"  I  have  waited." 

"Ah,  but  a  little  longer!" 

"But  my  love,  my  dear  one — " 

She  stirred  in  his  embrace;  she  turned  with  a  swift 
passion  of  entreaty,  putting  her  fingers  across  his  mouth. 

"Ned!  Ned!  I  know.  But  do  this  great  thing  for 
me!  Shut  your  eyes  and  your  ears.  Forget  yesterday, 
think  there  will  be  no  to-morrow.  Hold  this  one  mo- 
ment!    Give  me  my  one  hour!" 

She  pleaded  as  if  for  life,  her  body  vibrating,  her  eyes 
beseeching  him;  and  his  answer  was  to  press  her  hand 
harder  against  his  lips,  and  to  kiss  it  fervently.  He  gave 
no  sign  of  the  struggle  within  him — the  doubt  that  en- 
compassed him.  Something  had  been  demanded  of 
him,  and  he  gave  it  loyally. 

"  There  was  no  yesterday,  there  will  be  no  to-morrow!" 
he  said.     "  But  to-day  is  ours!" 

292 


MAX 

It  was  the  perfect  word,  spoken  perfectly,  Maxine's 
eyes  drooped  in  supreme  content,  her  lips  curled  like  a 
pleased  child's. 

"  Ah,  but  God  is  good!"  she  said,  and  with  a  child's  su- 
preme sweetness,  she  lifted  her  face  for  his  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  hour  was  sped,  the  day  past;  night,  with  its 
dark  wings,  covered  the  eastern  sky  and,  one  by 
one,  the  stars  came  forth — stars  that  gleamed  like  new 
silver  in  the  light  sharpness  of  the  September  air. 

Having  closed  eyes  to  the  world  at  the  Pre  Catelan, 
Maxine  and  Blake  had  lengthened  the  coil  of  their  dream 
as  the  day  waxed.  Three  o'clock  had  seen  them  driving 
into  the  heart  of  the  Bois,  and  late  afternoon  had  found 
them  wandering  under  the  formal,  interlaced  trees  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Petit  Trianon.  At  Versailles  they  dined, 
falling  a  little  silent  over  their  meal,  for  neither  could 
longer  hold  at  bay  the  sense  that  events  impended — that 
all  paths,  however  devious,  however  touched  by  the  en- 
chanter's wand,  lead  back  by  an  unalterable  law  to  the 
world  of  realities. 

With  an  unspoken  anxiety  they  clung  to  the  last 
moment  of  their  meal;  and  when  coffee  had  been  par- 
taken of,  Maxine  demanded  yet  another  cup  and,  resting 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  took  her  face  between  her  hands. 

"  Ned!     Will  you  not  offer  me  a  cigarette  ?" 

He  was  all  confusion  at  seeming  remiss. 

"My  dear  one!  A  thousand  pardons!  I  did  not 
think—" 

"—That  I  smoked?     Are  you  disappointed?" 

He  smiled.  "  It  is  one  charm  the  more— if  there  is 
room  for  one." 

He  handed  her  a  cigarette  and  lighted  a  match,  his 

294 


MAX 

eyes  resting  upon  her  as  she  drew  in  the  first  breath  of 
smoke  with  a  quaint  seriousness  that  smote  him  with  a 
thought  of  the  boy. 

"Dearest,''  he  said,  suddenly,  "I  have  been  so  happy 
to-day  that  I  have  thought  of  no  one  but  ourselves,  and 
now,  all  at  once — " 

Her  eyes  flashed  up  to  his;  she  divined  his  thought, 
and  it  was  as  though  she  put  forth  all  her  strength  to 
ward  off  a  physical  danger. 

"Oh,  mon  cher,  and  was  it  not  your  day — our  day? 
Would  you  have  marred  it  with  other  thoughts?" 

"No;  but  yet— " 

"  No !  No !"  She  put  out  her  hand,  she  pleaded  with 
eyes  and  lips  and  voice.  "Look!  Until  this  little 
cigarette  is  burned  out!"  She  held  up  the  glowing  tip. 
"When  that  is  over,  our  day  is  over;  then  we  return  to 
the  world — but  not  until  then.  Is  it — what  do  you  say — ■ 
a  bargain  ?"  Her  white  teeth  flashed,  her  glance  flashed 
with  the  brightness  of  tears,  her  fingers  rested  for  a 
second  upon  his. 

The  restaurant  was  practically  empty ;  a  few  summer 
tourists  were  dining  at  tables  close  to  the  door,  but 
Blake  had  chosen  the  farthest,  dimmest  corner  and  there 
they  sat  in  semi-isolation,  living  the  last  moments  of 
their  day  with  an  intensity  that  neither  dared  to  express 
and  that  each  was  conscious  of  with  every  beat  of  the 
heart. 

Maxinc  laughed  as  she  drew  her  second  puff  of  smoke, 
but  her  laugh  had  a  nervous  thinness.  Blake  filled  their 
liqueur-glasses,  but  his  gesture  was  uneven  and  a  little  of 
the  brandy  spilled  upon  the  cloth. 

"A  libation  to  the  gods!"  he  said.  "May  they  smile 
upon  us!"     He  lifted  his  glass  and  emptied  it. 

Maxine  forced  a  smile.  "The  gods  know  best!"  she 
said,  but  as  she  raised  her  glass,  her  hand,  also,  trembled. 

295 


MAX 

But  Blake  ignored  her  perturbation,  as  she  ignored 
his.  The  coming  ordeal  lay  stark  across  their  path,  but 
neither  would  look  upon  it,  neither  would  see  beyond 
the  tip  of  Maxine's  cigarette — the  tiny  beacon,  consum- 
ing even  as  it  gave  light! 

A  silence  fell — a  silence  of  full  five  minutes — then 
Blake,  yielding  once  more  to  the  craving  for  the  solace 
of  contact,  put  his  hand  over  hers. 

"  Dear  one,  I  know  nothing  of  what  is  coming,  but 
that  I  am  utterly  in  your  hands.  But  let  me  say  one 
thing.  To-day  has  been  heaven — the  golden,  the 
seventh  heaven!" 

She  said  nothing,  she  did  not  meet  his  eyes,  but  her 
cold  fingers  clasped  his  convulsively,  and  two  tears  fell 
hot  upon  their  hands. 

That  was  all;  that  was  the  sum  of  their  expression. 
No  other  word  was  spoken.  They  sat  silent,  watching 
the  cigarette  burn  itself  out  between  Maxine's  fingers. 

She  held  it  to  the  very  last,  then  dropped  it  into  her 
finger-bowl  and  rose. 

"  Now,  mon  cher!"  In  the  dim  light  she  looked  very 
tall  and  slight  and  seemed  possessed  of  a  curious  dignity. 
All  the  animation  had  left  her  face,  beneath  the  eyes 
were  shadows,  and  in  the  eyes  a  tragic  sadness — the  sad- 
ness that  the  soul  creates  for  itself. 

Blake  rose  also  and,  side  by  side,  very  quietly,  they 
left  the  restaurant.  In  the  street  outside,  the  cab  that 
had  assisted  in  the  day's  adventures  still  waited  their 
pleasure. 

He  handed  her  to  her  place  and  paused,  his  foot  upon 
the  step. 

"And  now,  liege  lady — where?" 

She  looked  at  him  gravely  and  answered  without  a 
tremor,  "To  Max's  studio." 

Surprise — if   surprise    touched   him — showed   not   at 

296 


MAX 

all  upon  his  face.  He  gave  the  order  quietly  and  ex- 
plicitly, and  took  his  place  beside  her. 

Down  the  broad  street  of  Versailles  they  wheeled, 
but  both  were  too  preoccupied  to  see  the  lurking  ghosts 
of  a  past  regime  that  lie  so  palpably  in  the  shadows, 
and  presently  Blake's  hand  found  hers  once  more. 

"You  are  cold?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

Through  the  cool  night  they  drove,  under  the  jewelled 
cloak  of  the  sky,  rushing  forward  toward  Paris  as  Max 
had  once  rushed  in  the  mysterious  north  express. 

Blake  did  not  speak  or  move  again  until  the  city  was 
close  about  them;  then,  with  a  gesture  that  startled 
her  by  its  unexpectedness,  he  drew  from  his  hand  the 
signet  ring  he  always  wore — a  ring  familiar  to  Max  as 
the  stones  of  the  rue  Miiller — and  slipped  it  over  her 
third  finger. 

"Oh,  Ned!"  She  started  as  the  ring  slipped  into 
place,  and  her  voice  trembled  with  fear  and  super- 
stition. 

He  pressed  her  hand.  Don't  refuse  it!  The  ring 
is  the  emblem  of  the  eternal,  and  all  my  thoughts  for 
you  belong  to  eternity." 

No  more  was  said;  they  skimmed  through  the  fa- 
miliar ways  until  Maxine  could  have  cried  aloud  for 
grace,  and  at  last  they  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  rue 
Andre  de  Sarte. 

She  stood  aside  as  Blake  dismissed  the  cab,  she  knew 
that  had  speech  been  demanded  of  her  then  she  could 
not  have  brought  forth  a  word,  so  parched  were  her  lips, 
so  impotent  her  tongue. 

Her  ordeal  confronted  her;  no  human  power  could 
eliminate  it  now.  To  her  was  the  disentangling  of 
knotted  threads,  the  sorting  of  the  colors  in  the  scheme 
of  things.     She  averted  her  face  from  Blake  as  they 

297 


MAX 

mounted  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie,  and  her  hand 
clung  for  support  to  the  iron  railing. 

Familiar  to  the  point  of  agony  was  the  open  door- 
way, the  dark  hall  of  the  house  in  the  rue  Miiller.  Side 
by  side  they  entered;  side  by  side,  and  in  complete 
silence,  they  made  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  each  step  of 
which  was  heavy  with  memories. 

On  the  fifth  floor  she  went  forward  and  opened  the 
door  of  Max's  appartement.  Within,  all  was  dark  and 
quiet,  and  Blake,  loyally  following  her,  passed  without 
comment  through  the  tiny  hall,  on  into  the  little  salon 
where  the  light  from  the  brilliant  sky  made  visible  the 
pathetically  familiar  objects — the  old  copper  vessels, 
the  dower  chest,  the  leathern  arm-chair. 

This  leather  chair  stood  like  a  faithful  sentinel  close 
to  the  open  window,  and  as  his  eyes  rested  on  it  he  was 
conscious  of  a  pained  contraction  of  the  heart,  for  it 
stood  exactly  where  it  had  stood  when  last  he  watched 
the  stars  and  rambled  through  his  dreams  and  ideals, 
with  the  boy  for  listener.  The  thought  came  quick  and 
sharp,  goading  him  as  many  a  puzzled  thought  had 
goaded  him  in  his  months  of  solitude,  and  as  at  Ver- 
sailles, he  turned  to  Maxine,  a  question  on  his  lips. 

But  again  she  checked  that  question.  Stepping 
through  the  shadows,  she  drew  him  across  the  room 
toward  the  window.  Reaching  the  old  chair,  she 
touched  his  shoulder,  gently  compelling  him  to  sit  down. 

"Ned,"  she  said,  and  to  her  own  ears  the  word 
sounded  infinitely  far  away.  "  I  seem  to  you  very  mad. 
But  you  have  a  great  patience.  Will  you  be  patient  a 
little  longer?" 

She  had  withdrawn  behind  the  chair,  laying  both  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and  as  she  spoke  her  voice 
shook  in  an  unconquerable  nervousness,  her  whole  body 
shook. 

298 


MAX 

"My  sweet!"  He  turned  quickly  and  looked  up  at 
her.  "  What  is  all  this  ?  Why  are  you  torturing  your- 
self ?     For  God's  sake,  let  us  be  frank  with  each  other — " 

But  she  pressed  his  shoulders  convulsively.  "Wait! 
wait!  It  is  only  a  little  moment  now.  I  implore  you 
to  wait!" 

He  sank  back,  and  as  in  a  dream  felt  her  fingers  release 
their  hold  and  heard  her  move  gently  back  across  the 
room;  then,  overwhelmed  by  the  burden  of  dread  that 
oppressed  him,  he  leaned  forward,  bowing  his  face  upon 
his  hands. 

Minutes  passed — how  few,  how  many,  he  made  no 
attempt  to  reckon — then  again  the  hushed  steps  sounded 
behind  him,  the  sense  of  a  gracious  presence  made  it- 
self felt. 

Instinctively  he  attempted  to  rise,  but,  as  before, 
Maxine's  hands  were  laid  upon  his  shoulders,  pressing 
him  back  into  his  seat.  He  saw  her  hands  in  the  star- 
light— saw  the  glint  of  his  own  ring. 

"Ned!" 

"Dear  one?" 

"It  is  dim,  here  in  this  room,  but  you  know  me? 
Your  soul  sees  me  ?"  Her  voice  was  shaking,  her  words 
sobbed  like  notes  upon  an  instrument  strung  to  breaking 
pitch. 

"My  dear  one!  My  dear  one!"  His  voice,  too,  was 
sharp  and  pained ;  he  strove  to  turn  in  his  chair,  but  she 
restrained  him. 

"  No !  No !  Say  it  without  looking.  You  know  me  ? 
I  am  Maxine  ?" 

"Of  course  you  are  Maxine!" 

"Ah!" 

It  was  a  short,  swift  sound  like  the  sobbing  breath  of 
a  spent  runner.  It  spoke  a  thousand  things,  and  with 
its  vibrations  trembling  upon  her  lips,  Maxine  came 

299 


MAX 

round  the  chair  and  Blake,  looking  up,  saw  Max — Max 
of  old,  Max  of  the  careless  clothes,  the  clipped  waving 
locks. 

It  is  in  moments  grotesque  or  supreme  that  men  show 
themselves.  He  sprang  to  his  feet;  he  stared  at  the  ap- 
parition until  his  eyes  grew  wide,  but  all  he  said  was 
'God!'  very  softly  to  himself.  'God!'  And  then  again, 
'God!' 

It  was  Maxine  who  opened  the  flood-gates  of  emotion; 
Maxine  who,  with  wild  gesture  and  broken  voice,  dressed 
the  situation  in  words. 

"  Now  it  is  over !  Now  it  is  finished — the  whole  foolish 
play!  Now  you  have  your  sight — and  your  liberty  to 
hate  me!     Hate  me!     Hate  me!     I  am  waiting." 

"God!"  whispered  Blake  again,  not  hearing  her,  piec- 
ing his  thoughts  together  as  a  waking  man  tries  to  piece 
a  dream.     '  God !' 

The  reiteration  tortured  her.  She  suddenly  caught 
his  arm,  forcing  him  into  contact  with  her.  "Do  not 
speak  to  yourself!"  she  cried.  "Speak  to  me!  Say  all 
you  think!     Hate  me!     Hate  me!" 

Then  at  last  he  broke  through  the  confusion  of  his 
mind,  startling  her  as  such  men  will  always  startle  women 
by  their  innate  singleness  of  thought. 

"  Hate  you  ?"  he  said.  "  Why,  in  God's  name,  should 
I  hate  you?" 

"  Because  it  is  right  and  just." 

"  That  I  should  hate  you,  because  I  have  been  a  fool  ? 
I  do  not  see  that." 

"  But,  Ned!"  she  cried;  then,  suddenly,  at  its  sharpest, 
her  voice  broke;  she  threw  herself  upon  her  knees  beside 
the  chair  and  sobbed. 

And  then  it  was  that  Blake  showed  himself.  Kneeling 
down  beside  her,  he  put  both  arms  about  the  boyish 
figure  and,  holding  it  close,  poured  forth— not  questions, 

300 


MAX 

not  reproaches,  not  protestations — but  a  stream  of  com- 
passion. 

"  Poor  child !  Poor  child !  Poor  child !  What  a  fool 
I've  been!     What  a  brute  I've  been!" 

But  Maxine  sobbed  passionately,  shrinking  away  from 
him,  as  though  his  touch  were  pain. 

"My  child!  My  child!  How  foolish  I  have  been! 
But  how  foolish  you  have  been,  too — how  sweetly  foolish ! 
You  gave  with  one  hand  and  took  away  with  the  other. 
But  now  it  is  all  over.  Now  you  are  going  to  give  with 
both  hands — I  am  to  have  my  friend  and  my  love  as  well. 
It  is  very  wonderful.  Oh,  sweet,  don't  fret!  Don't 
fret!     See  how  simple  it  allis!" 

But  Maxine's  bitter  crying  went  on,  until  at  last  it 
frightened  him. 

"  Maxine,  don't!  Don't,  for  God's  sake!  Why  should 
you  cry  like  this?  What  is  it,  when  all's  said  and  done, 
but  a  point  of  view?  And  a  point  of  view  is  adjusted 
much  more  quickly  than  you  think.  At  first  I  thought 
the  earth  was  reeling  round  me,  but  now  I  know  that 
'twas  only  my  own  brain  that  reeled;  and  I  know,  too, 
that  subconsciously  I  must  always  have  recognized  you 
in  Max — for  I  never  treated  Max  as  a  common  boy,  did  I  ? 
Did  I,  now?  I  always  had  a  queer — a  queer  respect  for 
him.     Dear  one,  see  it  with  me !     Try  to  see  it  with  me  ?" 

His  appeal  was  pathetic;  it  was  he  who  was  the  cul- 
prit— he  who  extenuated  and  pleaded.  The  position 
struck  Maxine,  wounding  her  like  a  knife. 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried  in  her  own  turn.  "Don't,  for 
the  sake  of  God!" 

"But  why?  Why?  My  sweet!  My  love!  My  little 
friend!     Max — Maxine!" 

It  was  not  to  be  borne.  She  wrenched  herself  free  and 
sprang  to  her  feet,  confronting  him  with  a  pale  face  down 
which  the  tears  streamed. 

20  301 


MAX 

"  Because  I  am  not  your  love !  I  am  not  your  friend ! 
I  am  not  your  Max — or  your  Maxine!" 

Swift  as  she,  he  was  on  his  feet,  his  bearing  changed, 
his  manhood  recognizing  the  challenge  in  her  voice,  his 
instinct  of  possession  alive  to  combat  it. 

"  Not  mine?"  he  said;  and  to  Maxine,  standing  white 
and  frail  before  him,  the  words  seemed  to  have  all  the 
significance  of  life  itself.  Now  at  last  they  confronted 
each  other — man  and  woman ;  now  at  last  the  issue  in  the 
war  of  sex  was  to  be  put  to  the  test. 

She  had  always  known  that  this  moment  would  arrive 
— always  known  that  she  would  meet  it  in  some  such 
manner  as  she  was  meeting  it  now. 

"Not  mine?"  Blake  said  again. 

She  shook  her  head,  throwing  back  her  shoulders, 
clasping  her  hands  behind  her,  unconsciously  taking  on 
the  attitude  of  defiance. 

"And  why  not?" 

It  was  curt,  this  question,  as  man's  vital  questions 
ever  are;  it  was  an  onslaught  that  clove  to  the  heart  of 
things. 

She  trembled  for  an  instant,  then  met  his  eyes. 

"Because  I  will  belong  to  no  one.  I  must  possess 
myself." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"But  it  is  not  given  to  any  one  to  possess  himself! 
How  can  you  separate  an  atom  from  the  universal  mass  ?" 

"  An  atom  may  detach  itself — " 

"And  fall  into  space!  Is  that  self-possession?  But, 
my  God,  are  we  going  to  split  hairs?  Maxine!  Maxine!" 
He  came  close  to  her  and  put  out  his  arms,  but  with  a 
fierce  gesture  she  evaded  him;  then,  as  swiftly,  caught 
his  hand. 

"Oh,  Ned!     Oh,  Ned!     Can't  you  see?" 

"  No!"  said  Blake,  simply.     "  I  cannot.' 

302 


>» 


MAX 

"Listen!  Then  listen!  I  know  myself  for  an  in- 
dividual— for  a  definite  entity;  I  know  that  here — here, 
within  me" — she  struck  her  breast — "I  have  power — 
power  to  think — power  to  achieve.  And  how  do  you 
think  that  power  is  to  be  developed  ?"  She  paused,  look- 
ing at  him  with  burning  eyes.  "  Not  by  the  giving  of 
my  soul  into  bondage — not  by  the  submerging  of  myself 
in  another  being.  That  night  in  Petersburg  I  saw  my 
way — the  hard  way,  the  lonely  way!  Oh,  Ned!"  She 
stopped  again,  searching  his  face,  but  his  face  was  pale 
and  immobile — curiously,  unnaturally  immobile. 

With  a  passionate  gesture,  she  flung  his  hand  from 
her.  "Oh,  it  is  so  cruel!  Can't  you  see?  Can't  you 
understand  ?  I  left  Russia  to  make  a  new  life ;  I  made 
myself  a  man,  not  for  a  whim,  but  as  a  symbol.  Sex  is 
only  an  accident,  but  the  world  has  made  man  the  in- 
dependent creature — and  I  desired  independence.  Sex 
is  only  an  accident.  Mentally,  I  am  as  good  a  man  as 
you  are." 

"Ten  times  a  better  man,"  said  Blake,  startingly. 
"  But  not  near  so  good  a  woman.  For  I  know  the  high- 
est thing — and  you  do  not." 

"The  highest  thing?" 

"Love." 

"  Ah !"  She  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair  and  walked 
to  the  window,  looking  up  blankly  at  the  stars.  Then, 
suddenly,  she  spoke  again,  tossing  her  words  back  into 
the  room. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  am  happy  in  all  this?" 

He  was  silent. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  find  this  heaven?" 

At  last  he  answered.  He  came  across  to  her;  he 
stood  looking  at  her  with  his  strange  new  expression  of 
inscrutability. 

"Oh,  Maxine!"  he  said,  "why  must  you  misjudge  me? 

303 


MAX 

Little  Maxine,  who  could  be  taken  in  my  arms  this 
minute  and  carried  away  to  my  castle,  like  a  princess 
of  long  ago — but  who  would  break  her  heart  over  the 
bondage!  I  haven't  much,  dear  one,  to  justify  my 
existence — but  the  gods  have  given  me  intuition.  I  do 
not  think  you  are  in  heaven." 

He  waited  a  moment,  while  in  the  sky  above  them 
the  stars  looked  down  impartially  upon  the  white  domes 
of  the  church  and  the  beacons  of  pleasure  in  the  city  below. 

"  Maxine !  Shall  I  say  the  things  for  you  that  you 
want  to  say?" 

She  bent  her  head. 

"  Well,  first  of  all,  God  help  us,  the  world  is  a  terrible 
tangle ;  and  then  j'ou  have  a  strange  soul  that  has  never 
yet  half  revealed  itself.  You  sent  me  away  from  you 
because  you  feared  love;  you  called  me  back  because 
you  feared  your  fear — " 

"No!  No!  You  are  reasoning  now,  not  justifying? 
You  are  entrapping  me!" 

"Am  I?" 

"Yes,  and  I  refuse  to  be  entrapped!  I  know  love — 
I  know  all  the  specious  things  that  love  can  say;  the 
talk  of  independence,  the  talk  of  equality!  But  I  know 
the  reality,  too.  The  reality  is  the  absolute  annihilation 
of  the  woman — the  absolute  merging  of  her  identity." 

"So  that  is  love?" 

"That  is  love." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  long  profound  look  of 
deep  restraint,  of  great  sadness. 

"Maxine,"  he  said,  at  last,  "you  have  many  gifts — a 
high  intelligence,  a  young  body,  a  strong  soul,  but  in 
the  matter  of  love  you  are  a  little  child.  To  you,  love 
is  barter  and  exchange;  but  love  is  not  that.  Love  is 
nothing  but  a  giving — an  exhaustless  giving  of  one's 
very  best." 

3°4 


MAX 

She  tried  to  laugh.     "I  understand!     I  should  give!" 

"No,  sweet,  you  should  not.  You  cannot  know  the 
privileges  of  love,  for  you  do  not  know  love." 

"Oh,  Ned!     How  cruel!     How  cruel!" 

"  You  do  not  know  love,"  he  spoke,  very  gently,  with- 
out any  bitterness,  "and  I  do  know  it;  for  it  has  grown 
in  me,  day  by  day,  in  these  long  months  away  from 
you.  I  am  not  to  be  praised,  any  more  than  you  are 
to  be  blamed.  But  I  do  love  you — with  my  heart  and 
my  soul — with  my  life  and  my  strength.  I  would  die 
for  you,  if  dying  would  help  you;  and  as  it  won't,  I  will 
do  the  harder  thing — live  for  you." 

Her  lips  were  parted,  but  -they  uttered  no  sound; 
her  eyes,  dark  with  thought,  searched  his  face. 

"Oh,  Maxine!"  He  caught  her  hand.  "How  low 
you  have  rated  me — to  think  I  would  wrest  you  from 
yourself!     Is  it  my  place  to  make  life  harder  for  you?" 

Still  she  gazed  at  him.  "  I  do  not  understand,"  she 
said,  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

"Never  mind,  sweet!  It  doesn't  matter  if  you  never 
understand.     Just  give  me  credit  for  one  saving  grace." 

He  spoke  lightly,  as  men  speak  when  they  are  bank- 
rupt of  hope,  then  with  a  sudden  breaking  of  his  stoicism, 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  straining  her  close,  kissing 
her  mouth,  talking  incoherently  to  himself. 

"Oh,  Maxine!  Little  faun  of  the  green  groves!  If 
you  could  know!  But  what  am  I  that  I  should  possess 
the  kingdom  of  heaven?" 

His  ecstasy  frightened  her;  she  struggled  to  free 
herself. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked.     "  What  is  it  ?" 

"Just  love — no  more,  no  less!  Good-bye!  Take 
your  life — make  it  what  you  will;  but  know  always 
that  one  man  at  least  has  seen  heaven  in  your  eyes." 
Again  he  held  her  to  him,  his  whole  life  seeming  to  flow 

3°5 


MAX 

out  upon  his  thoughts  and  to  envelop  her,  then  his  arms 
relaxed  and  very  soberly  he  took,  first  one  of  her  hands, 
and  then  the  other,  kissing  each  in  turn. 

"Maxine!" 

"  Ned!"     The  word  faltered  on  her  lips. 

"That's  right!"  he  whispered.  "I  only  wanted  you 
to  say  my  name.  Good-bye  now!  Don't  fret  for  me! 
After  all,  everything  is  as  it  should  be." 

She  stood  before  him,  the  conqueror.  All  precon- 
ceptions had  been  scattered;  she  had  not  even  won  her 
laurels,  they  had  been  placed  at  her  feet;  and  all  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  she  could  summon  to  her 
triumphing  was  a  white  face,  a  drooping  head,  and 
speechless  lips. 

"Good-bye,  Maxine!"  The  words  cried  for  response, 
and  by  a  supreme  effort  she  summoned  her  voice  from 
some  far  region. 

"Good-bye!" 

He  did  not  kiss  her  hand  again,  but  bending  his  head, 
he  solemnly  kissed  his  own  ring,  lying  cold  upon  her 
finger. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

ALL  was  finished.  Mystery  was  at  an  end.  The 
pilgrim's  staff  had  been  placed  in  Maxine's  hand, 
her  feet  set  toward  the  great  white  road.  She  leaned 
back  against  the  window  of  the  salon  and  her  mental  eyes 
scanned  that  road — the  coveted  road  of  freedom,  the 
way  of  splendid  isolation— and  in  a  vague,  dumb  fashion 
she  wondered  why  the  whiteness  that  had  gleamed  like 
snow  in  the  distance  should  take  on  the  hue  of  dust  seen 
at  close  quarters.  She  wondered  why  she  should  feel  so 
absolutely  numbed — why  life,  with  its  exuberances  of 
joy  and  sorrow,  should  suddenly  have  receded  from  her 
as  a  tide  recedes. 

There  had  been  no  battle;  hers  was  a  bloodless  vic- 
tory. Fate  had  been  exquisitely  kind,  as  is  Fate's  way 
when  she  would  be  ironical.  Maxine  could  call  up  no 
cause  for  grief  or  for  resentment,  no  cause  even  for  re- 
morse. She  had  confessed  herself ;  she  had  been  shriven 
and  blessed,  and  bade  to  go  her  way! 

Passing  in  review  these  phantom  speculations,  her  eyes 
suddenly  refused  the  vision  of  the  mythical  white  road, 
stretching  away  in  brain-sickening  length,  and  her 
physical  sight  caught  at  the  familiar  picture  revealed  by 
the  balcony — the  thrice-known,  thricc-loved  shrubbery, 
where  already  the  glossy  holly  leaves  were  stirring  under 
September's  fingers,  whispering  one  to  the  other  of  fine 
cold  autumn  hours  when  gales  would  sweep  the  heights, 
bringing  death  to  their  frailer  brethren,  while  they  them- 

3°7 


MAX 

selves  nestled  snug  and  strong,  laughing  at  the  elements. 
She  traced  the  familiar  outline  of  these  sturdy  bushes, 
and  her  perfect  triumph  seemed  like  a  winding  sheet 
about  her  limbs.  She  was  above  the  world,  removed 
from  care,  and  all  she  knew  was  that  she  would  have 
given  her  heart  for  one  moment  of  the  hot  human  grief 
that  had  seared  her  not  four  months  ago. 

She  turned  from  the  trees,  turned  from  the  stars  and 
moved  back  into  the  unlighted  room.  All  was  quiet  and 
dim;  she  stumbled  against  the  arm-chair  and  recoiled 
as  though  a  friend  had  touched  her  inopportunely ;  then 
she  passed  blindly  onward,  finding  the  little  hall,  finding 
the  outer  door  with  groping  hands. 

Outside  was  a  deeper  darkness,  for  here  no  starlight 
penetrated;  but  M.  Cartel's  door  was  ajar,  and  through 
the  opening  came  a  streak  of  lamplight  and  the  hum  of 
voices. 

Pausing,  Maxine  caught  the  deep,  humorous  tones  of 
M.  Cartel  himself,  broken  first  by  an  unknown  voice, 
quick,  tense,  typically  Parisian,  then  by  the  light  laugh 
of  Jacqueline. 

In  her  cruel  perfection  of  triumph,  she  had  no  need  to 
fear  these  voices — these  little  evidences  of  sociability. 
They  could  not  hurt  her,  for  was  she  not  impervious  to 
pain? 

Another  laugh,  full  and  contented,  came  to  her  ear, 
then  the  opening  of  the  piano  and  the  masterful  striking 
of  a  chord. 

A  murmur  of  pleasure  gave  evidence  of  an  audience, 
and  instinctively  she  moved  forward,  as  a  wanderer  on  a 
dark  night  draws  near  to  a  lighted  dwelling.  Gaining  the 
door,  she  softly  pushed  it  open,  as  M.  Cartel  executed  a 
roulade,  which  melted  into  a  brilliant  piece  of  improvi- 
zation. 

A  bright  lamp  shone  in  the  hall;  but  beyond,  the  open 

308 


MAX 

door  of  the  living-room  displayed  a  half-lighted  interior, 
with  a  handful  of  people  grouped  about  it.  Foremost 
figure  was  M.  Cartel  seated  at  his  music  within  a  radius 
of  yellow  light  shed  by  four  candles,  while,  beside  him,  a 
tall  thin  boy,  and,  behind  him,  Jacqueline  seemed  en- 
closed in  a  secondary,  fainter  circle  of  luminance.  The 
rest  of  the  room  was  in  shadow,  and  as  Maxine  entered, 
she  scarcely  noticed  the  three  other  occupants — two  men 
and  a  woman — who  sat  in  a  row  close  to  the  door,  their 
backs  to  the  wall. 

No  one  commented  upon  her  entry.  The  little  Jac- 
queline glanced  round  once,  smiling  a  quick  welcome,  but 
returned  immediately  to  her  contemplation  of  M.  Cartel; 
the  younger  of  the  two  men  by  the  door — an  Italian — 
paused  in  the  lighting  of  a  cigarette,  but  his  companion 
— an  old  Polish  Jew  with  a  classic  head  and  long,  gray 
beard — retained  his  attitude  of  rapt  attention,  while  the 
woman,  who  sat  a  little  apart,  and  whose  large  black  hat 
hid  her  face,  made  no  sign. 

Treading  softly,  Maxine  entered  and  crept  into  a  seat 
opposite  the  trio,  realizing,  with  an  indifference  that  sur- 
prised her,  that  the  woman  was  Lize  of  the  Bal  Tabarin 
and  the  Cafe  des  Cerises-jumelles. 

The  music  poured  forth,  a  glittering  stream  of  sound. 
The  young  Italian  lighted  cigarette  after  cigarette, 
smoking  furiously  and  beating  soundless  time  upon  the 
floor  with  his  foot,  the  old  Pole  sat  lost  in  an  emotional 
dream,  tears  gathering  slowly  in  his  eyes  and  trickling  un- 
heeded down  his  cheeks,  while  Lize,  in  her  moveless  isola- 
tion, gazed  with  fixed  intensity  at  the  wall  above  Max- 
ine's  head. 

Time  passed;  time  seemed  of  small  account  in  that 
atmosphere — as  the  outside  world  was  of  small  account. 
Not  one  of  the  little  audience  questioned  how  the  other 
lived.     It  mattered  nothing  that  in  other  hours  the  ar- 

309 


MAX 

tistic  fingers  of  the  young  Italian  were  employed  in  the 
manufacture  of  fraudulent  antiques — that  the  enthusiast 
by  the  piano  wrote  humorous  songs  at  a  starvation  wage 
for  an  unsuccessful  comique — that  Lize,  finding  humanity 
foolish,  made  profit  of  its  folly!  'What  would  you?' 
they  would  have  asked  with  a  shrug.  '  One  must  live !' 
For  the  rest,  there  were  moments  such  as  this — moments 
when  the  artist  was  paramount  in  each  of  them — when 
pure  enthusiasm  made  them  children  again! 

M.  Cartel  played  on.  He  had  forsaken  improvization 
now,  and  was  interpreting  magnificently;  occasionally 
the  boy  by  the  piano  threw  up  his  hands  ecstatically, 
muttering  incoherently  to  himself;  occasionally  the 
young  Italian  broke  silence  by  a  sharp,  irresistible 
' Brava';  but  for  the  most  part  respectful  silence  spoke 
the  intensity  of  the  spell. 

Then  at  last  Maxine,  sitting  in  her  corner,  saw  Jac- 
queline bend  over  the  shoulder  of  M.  Cartel,  her  hair 
shining  like  sun-rays  in  the  candlelight — saw  her  whisper 
in  his  ear — saw  him  look  up  and  nod  in  abrupt  acquies- 
cence, and  saw  his  square-tipped  fingers  lift  for  an  in- 
stant from  the  keys  and  descend  again  to  a  series  of  new 
chords. 

A  little  murmur  of  interest  passed  over  the  listeners. 
The  Italian  threw  away  his  half-smoked  cigarette  and 
lighted  another,  the  Pole  smiled  tolerantly  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  as  the  old  smile  at  the  vagaries  of  the  young, 
and  Maxine  in  her  shadowed  seat  felt  her  heart  leap 
tumultuously  as  the  little  Jacqueline,  her  arm  naively 
round  the  shoulder  of  M.  Cartel,  her  head  thrown  back, 
began  to  sing  the  first  lines  of  the  duet  in  Louise: 

'  Depuis  le  jour  ou  je  me  suis  donnee,  toute  fleurie  semble  ma 

destinee. 
Je  crois  rever  sous  un  del  de  feerie,  Tame  encore  grisee  de  ton 

premier  baiser!' 

310 


MAX 

And  M.  Cartel,  lifting  his  head,  broke  in  with  the 
single  electric  cry  of  Julian  the  lover : 

'  Louise!' 

Then,  as  if  answering  to  the  personal  note,  Jacqueline 
melted  into  Louise's  sweet  admission  of  absolute  sur- 
render : 

'  Quelle  belle  vie ! 
Ah,   je  suis  heureuse!  trop  heureuse  .  .  .  et  je  tremble  de- 

licieusement, 
Au  souvenir  charmant  du  premier  jour  d'amour!' 

The  effect  was  instant.  The  youth  by  the  piano 
smiled  radiantly  and  nodded  in  vehement  approval;  the 
young  Italian  puffed  fiercely  at  his  cigarette;  a  flash 
of  light  crossed  Lize's  gaze,  causing  it  to  concentrate. 

Jacqueline  had  no  extraordinary  voice,  but  music  was 
native  to  her,  and  she  sang  as  birds  sing,  with  a  true 
light  sweetness  exquisite  to  the  ear: 

'  Souvenir  charmant  du  premier  jour  d'amour !' 

The  declaration  came  to  the  listeners  with  a  pure 
sincerity,  it  abounded  in  simplicity,  in  youthfulness,  in 
conviction.  A  quiver  ran  through  Maxine,  her  numbed 
senses  vibrated.  By  an  acute  intuition  she  realized  the 
composer's  meaning;  more,  she  appreciated  the  thrill 
called  up  in  the  soul  of  M.  Cartel.  Her  ears  were  strained 
to  catch  each  note,  each  phrase,  with  an  intentness  that 
astonished  her;  it  suddenly  appeared  that  out  of  all  the 
world,  one  thing  alone  was  of  significance — the  close  fol- 
lowing of  this  song,  the  apprehending  of  its  purpose. 

'  Souvenir  charmant  du  premier  jour  d'amour!' 

The  first  night  with  Blake  upon  the  balcony  sprang 
back  to  memory,  and  with  it  the  wonder,  the  delight,  the 
illimitable  sense  of  kinship  with  the  universe.  Again 
the  spiritual  sense  lived  in  her,  not  warring  with  the 

3" 


MAX 

physical,  but  justifying,  completing  it.  She  sat  upright 
against  the  wall,  suddenly  fearful  of  this  overwhelming 
mental  disturbance — fighting  the  cloud  of  memory  al- 
most as  one  fights  a  bodily  faintness. 

The  music  grew  in  meaning;  she  heard  Julian's  ar- 
dent question: 

'  Tu  ne  regrette  rien  ? ' 

and  Louise's  triumphant  answer: 

'Rien!' 

The  words,  simply  human,  divinely  just,  assailed  her 
ears,  and  by  light  of  the  intuition — the  superconscious- 
ness  that  was  dominating  her — the  whole  truth  of  this 
confessed  love  poured  in  upon  her  soul.  She  saw  the 
halo  about  the  head  of  the  little  singer,  she  appreciated 
the  sublime  giving  of  herself  that  cried  in  the  music  of 
the  song.  It  was  no  mere  sentiment  on  the  lips  of  this 
fair  child,  it  was  the  proclamation  of  a  tremendous  fact. 

She  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  lips  set,  hands 
clasped.  She  clung  to  the  rock  of  her  theories  like  a 
drowning  man,  and  like  the  drowning  man  she  realized 
the  imminence  of  the  inundation  that  threatened  her. 

The  music  swelled,  and  now  it  was  not  Jacqueline 
alone  who  sang;  M.  Cartel's  voice  rose,  completing,  per- 
fecting the  higher  feminine  notes,  blending  with  them  as 
the  music  of  wind  or  running  water  might  harmonize 
with  the  singing  of  a  bird.  It  was  not  art  but  nature 
that  was  at  work  in  the  words : 

'Nous  sommes  tous  les  amants,  fideles  a  leur  serment!     Ah,  le 
divin  roman! 

•  •  *  • 

Nous  sommes  toutes  les  ames  que  brule  le  sainte  flamme  du 
desire ! 
Ah,  la  parole  ideale  dont  s'enivre  mon  corps  tout  entier! 
Dis  encore  ta  chanson  de  delice !     Ta  chanson  victorieuse,  ta 
chanson  de  printemps !' 

312 


MAX 

The  duet  wore  on,  enthralling  in  its  closeness  to  com- 
mon human  life,  with  its  touches  of  tears,  its  touches  of 
laughter,  its  hints  of  tenderness  and  bursts  of  passion. 
Not  one  face  but  had  softened  in  comprehension  as 
Louise  painted  the  picture  of  her  home — of  the  gentle 
father,  the  scolding  mother,  the  little  daily  frictions  that 
wear  patience  thin ;  not  one  heart  but  had  leaped  when 
passion  broke  a  way  through  the  song,  mounting, 
mounting  as  upon  wings,  until  Louise  in  her  ecstasy  of 
love  and  joy  and  incredulity  exclaims: 

'C'est  le  paradis!    C'est  une  feerie!' 

And  Julian  answers: 

'Non!    C'est  la  vie!     l'Eternelle,  la  toute  puissante  vie!' 

It  was  the  supreme,  the  psychological  moment!  The 
duet  continued,  but  Maxine  heard  no  further  words. 
They  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  her  brain,  they  obsessed 
her,  lifting  her  to  a  sublimal  state. 

Across  the  room  she  saw  the  Italian  throw  away  his 
cigarette  and  forget  to  replace  it;  she  saw  Lize  lean  for- 
ward breathlessly,  and  she  knew  that  in  fancy  she  was 
back  in  the  Quartier  Latin  when  life  was  young — -when 
love  laughed,  and  her  hair  was  wreathed  with  vine 
leaves.  She  saw  her  at  last  as  a  living  woman — felt  the 
grape-juice  run  down  her  neck — felt  the  kisses  of  the 
Jacque  Aujet  who  was  ten  years  dead! 

This,  then,  was  the  sum  of  life!  Not  the  holding  of 
fair  things,  but  the  giving  of  them ! 

She  rose  up;  her  limbs  shook,  but  she  paid  no  heed 
to  physical  strength  or  weakness;  she  was  on  a  plane 
where  the  soul  moved  free,  regardless  of  mortal  needs. 
Neither  Max  nor  Maxine  had  any  place  in  her  concep- 
tions. She  saw  Lize,  broken  but  justified,  because  she 
had  given  when  life  asked  of  her;    she  saw  the  little 

3*3 


MAX 

Jacqueline,  with  the  halo  of  candle-light  turning  her 
blonde  hair  to  gold;  in  a  distant  dream  she  saw  the 
frail,  steadfast  Madame  Salas,  and  in  a  near,  poignant 
vision  she  saw  Blake,  and  her  soul  melted  within  her. 

She  conceived  the  world  as  one  immense  censer  into 
which  men  and  women  poured  their  all,  and  from  which 
a  wondrous  white  smoke,  a  scent  incredibly  lovely,  rose 
continually,  enveloping  the  universe. 

To  give!  To  give  without  hope  of  recompense,  with- 
out question,  without  fear !     That  was  the  message  of  life. 

She  looked  round  the  little  room;  she  yearned  to  put 
out  her  arms,  to  clasp  each  hand,  to  touch  each  fore- 
head with  the  kiss  of  living  fellowship.  Love  con- 
sumed her,  humility  filled  her,  she  was  a  child  again, 
with  all  things  to  learn. 

The  music  was  reaching  its  climax,  it  was  filling  every 
corner  of  the  room,  and  as  she  glanced  toward  the  piano 
in  a  last  long  look,  the  two  voices  rose  in  unison. 

Silently — none  knowing  the  revolution  within  her  soul 
— none  seeing  the  heights  upon  which  she  walked — 
Maxine  moved  to  the  door  and  slipped  out  into  the  hall, 
the  picture  of  the  lovers  before  her  eyes,  in  her  ears  the 
symbolic  cry: 

'C'est  la  vie!     l'Eternelle,  la  toute  puissante  vie!' 

Like  a  being  inspired,  she  passed  back  into  her  own 
appartement,  and  there,  with  a  strange  high  excite- 
ment that  was  yet  mystically  calm,  entered  her  little 
bedroom  and  lighted  candles  until  not  a  shadow  was  left 
in  all  the  white  circumscribed  space ;  then,  standing  in  the 
illumination,  like  an  acolyte  who  ministers  to  some  secret 
rite,  she  slowly  unburdened  herself  of  her  boy's  garments. 

The  task  was  brief;  they  fell  from  her  lightly,  leaving 
her  fair  and  virginal  and  untrammelled  in  body,  as  she 
was  virginal  and  untrammelled  in  mind;    and  with  a 

3M 


MAX 

sweet  gravity  she  clothed  herself,  garment  by  garment, 
in  the  dress  of  the  morning. 

Ardent  and  eager — yet  restrained,  as  befitted  a  woman 
aware  of  her  high  place — she  left  the  room  and  passed 
down  the  Escalier  de  Sainte-Marie.  A  rush  of  cool  air 
came  to  her  across  the  plantation,  kissing  her  hot  cheeks, 
the  holly  bushes  whispered  their  secrets — which  were 
her  secrets  as  well,  the  eyes  of  the  stars  looked  down, 
smiling  into  her  eyes.  She  observed  no  face  in  the  throng- 
ing faces  that  passed  her;  she  made  her  steadfast  way  to 
the  one  point  in  the  universe  that  was  her  goal  by  right 
divine.  Even  in  the  hallway  of  Blake's  house  she  did 
not  stop  to  question,  but  mounted  the  stairs  and  knocked 
upon  his  door,  regardless  of  the  stormy  beating  of  her 
heart,  the  faintness  of  anticipation  that  encompassed  her. 

A  moment  passed — a  moment  or  a  century ;  then  he  was 
before  her,  appealing  to  the  innermost  recesses  of  her  being. 

He  stared  at  her,  as  one  might  stare  upon  a  ghost. 

"Maxine!" 

Her  lips  parted,  trembling  with  a  pleading  tenderness. 

"  Maxine!"  he  said  again;  and  now  his  voice  shook,  as 
hers  had  shaken  in  Max's  little  starlit  studio. 

It  was  the  cry  she  had  waited  for — the  confirmation  of 
her  faith.  Her  hands  went  out  to  him;  her  soul  sud- 
denly poured  forth  allegiance  in  look  and  voice. 

"Ned!  Ned!  Take  me!  Take  me  and  teach  me! 
Take  me  away  to  your  castle,  like  the  princess  of  old. 
Show  me  the  white  sky  and  the  opal  sea,  and  the  sea- 
weed that  smells  like  violets!" 

His  hands  clasped  hers,  his  incredulous  eyes  besought 
her.     "Maxine,  this  is  some  dream?" 

"No;  it  is  no  dream.     We  are  awake.     It  is  life!" 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


l^tttfMI 


.in  01  1987 


3  1158  01201  0160 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  382  793    8 


